


Credulous

by Ribbonshalos



Series: Superstitious AU [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Character Death, Demonic Possession, F/M, Fluff, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Era, Oni Genji Shimada, Romance, Violence, spooky times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 18:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21306707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbonshalos/pseuds/Ribbonshalos
Summary: Angela has settled into her home with her ghostly love, Genji. His haunting confines him to the inner walls of the house, but he’s not the source of the unexplained strangeness that begins to disturb their peace.
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: Superstitious AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536113
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! I’m so excited for this series! I love this AU to death (heh) and I’ve had this continuation on my mind for nearly a year. I hope you enjoy! And a huge thanks to @fume-knight-of-shovelry for beta reading!

It is said that black cats crossing your path is an omen of misfortune and death. Mirrors capture pieces of your soul, and if broken, give years of bad luck. Some even believe they must be covered after a recent death in the house, least the recently deceased spirit be trapped inside. Children born on Halloween are whispered to have the power to see spirits. 666 is the Number of the Beast, and a sign of the end of times. A certain Friday falling under a certain date on the calendar is considered evil.

Superstitions. All of them.

She wasn’t superstitious, before.

Angela never believed one. She would laugh at such an idea. She’s logical, sensible. She knows reality doesn’t shape to the sheer belief of what runs through people’s heads. There is a reason for everything, even for the most difficult to understand.

Yet, she’s come to know spirits, poltergeists, ghosts, demons—whatever one wants to call them, are real. The concepts are as true as her own existence, as her own heartbeat.

Her love for a demon is as firm, unwavering, as real, as the roots of a great oak tree. A small doubt doesn’t ruffle the leaves of her belief. Roaring winds of confusion and questions can’t sway the trunk of her decision.

She loves him. Genji, the demon haunting her house.

And he loves her so, so dearly.

Her heart races for many different reasons upon seeing him manifest before her. Fear, the natural knee jerk reaction of her spirit to the supernatural, and pure giddy delight, at his red irises softening as he looks at her, and love. Of course, love. Aching, “I missed you” love. The eternal knowledge that he’ll always be here, waiting to hold her when she returns from work. The kind of love that wants to make him happy, even in his damned, lingering state.

Bittersweetness is a part of her blood at this point. He’s a demon, but he’s hers, promised and sworn.

They don’t talk often about the reality of their situation. It’s difficult, and in the end, only serves to make them both unhappy. Neither know anything they can do to make the current situation better. He’s a cursed spirit. She’s mortal and still continuing through life.

Any suggestions given by Zenyatta, the religious monk of the Shambali who knows the truth, frightens Angela. His ideas are too close to blessings that rid the house of its haunting occupier. Too similar to exorcisms. She refuses to have Genji’s being sent into oblivion, despite what his nature walks towards.

Zenyatta is a good friend, and wise person, but he doesn’t see how wonderful the demon is. To keep peace, she stores a golden orb he gave to her in the nightstand close to her bed. The orb is holy in nature and naturally repels Genji, but her fingers haven’t touched the metallic surface in weeks.

Genji hates Zenyatta regardless, but any slight lean towards something so opposing to his very existent sends rage throughout the frame of the house.

After both Genji’s and Angela’s reactions, the monk has learned to not bring up such topics.

That, however, doesn’t mean the strangly joined couple doesn’t consider the heavy effects. As furious as the monk makes Genji, his views aren’t far from his own. Perhaps that scares him in a sense. It’s another voice to confirm his doubts and fears.

Genji is afraid he’s the rotten seed that blooms all of Angela’s nightmares, and the cause of the dark circles underneath her eyes. Her soul, which he tells her like a revered scripture, is beautiful and brighter than the sun. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he tarnished it, somehow damned that holy piece of her by loving her.

It’s ridiculous. Her soul can’t be ruined, much less by his dark, gentle hand caressing her cheek.

Angela’s adjusted to the new house, her new job, and her new love. She opens her eyes in the early powder blue of dawn. Against her backside, a cool body presses against her own, lining the length of her person like a mold for her bones. Dark fingertips stroke her arm, slowly soothing away the chills raised by his presence.

In the warm blanket of her bed, comforted by the demon, Angela can’t find the will to move out of the nest of paradise.

She still does. The world outside doesn’t wait for lovers.

A good morning kiss. It is simply another breaking of dawn for Genji, as he has no ability to rest, but he certainly doesn’t mind holding her while she does. It’s comforting to have an aware, protective being in her bed.

She onced asked if he was growing bored with laying down with her while she sleeps. The demon shook his head and horns. No, he said, it actually helps the time past. Her heartbeat and breathing are lullabies to him, and make the nights go quickly.

Her heart is lighter for it, happy that she can comfort him as much as he does her.

He disappears for some of the morning, in a sense of the word, anyways. He doesn’t take a physical form while Angela goes about getting ready. A hot shower, a quick tie in her hair, make-up, and then clothes. Today she only has surgery consultations. She takes care to dress up a bit more for her patients as a professional appearance eases their anxiety for what she consults over, and the extra accessories won’t get in the way of her paperwork.

When Angela steps out of the bathroom, a steaming mug of coffee is waiting for her on her vanity desk. A smile warms her lips. The liquid love leaks into her chest and fills her frame.

Brushing her bangs away from her face, Angela settles down on the small stool. The mirror reflects a bright woman. The small, marring detail of the dark circles underneath her eyes can be easily covered with foundation.

“Thank you, Genji,” she murmurs, bringin the mug to her lips. Teaching the demon how to make coffee has been one of the more enjoyable, if not strange, parts of her dealings in the haunted house. Genji never cared to notice the advancement of technology before. Every time a new family moved into his home, he channeled his ghostly rage into chasing off the trespassers.

A soft kiss to the back of her shoulder moves across her scapula as a silent ‘you’re welcome’.

The demon has never been much for words. Whether that’s been nurtured by years of isolation, his demonic state, or by simple preference, Angela can’t decide. He does speak to her. His voice is steady and haunting, something she could only compare to a midnight river. Rumbling deeply but with a revere quiet that echoes throughout the darkness. He holds conversations but when it’s not the dead of night, or Angela is active, his expressions are more physical. A hand playfully tugging the end of her hair. A cool impression moving through the air of his humor. A tilt of the horns on his face as he looks at her with amusement.

She understands him, in either translation.

Angela picks a simple necklace with a silver chain. A small, white bird pendant hangs from its center. Before her lips can part, two dark hands reach around her, brushing against her shoulders. The details of his ghostly aspects intertwine into a muscular build along his arms and hands. His fingers undo the clasp. Angela lifts her chin, face warming to a blushing pink as Genji clasps the necklace around her throat.

The mirror on the vanity desk only shows Angela looking like a lovesick schoolgirl. For all it cares, she’s alone in her bedroom. The invisible force gently laying the necklace at the top of her sternum is only that.

Funny how demons work.

Looking into a mirror while Genji is near stirs up doubts in her head, forcing questions of her sanity. Angela quickly squashes them with a soft reach for Genji’s hand over her shoulder. He gives it without hesitation. Gently, she lifts Genji’s fingers. She turns her head, pressing her lips into his palm. The cool, familiar touch of his supernatural skin seeps into her veins. An easy reminder of her truth.

His fingers twitch, unable to resist tracing her jawline.

Angela breathes out, letting the demon go.

“I have to go to work.”

A quiet, wistful breath brushes against the shell of her ear. Before she can turn to catch his red gaze, a playful tug on the end of her ponytail displaces her worry.

“I know,” Genji sighs.

His physical manifestation retreats to the invisible energy within the air. Angela glances back, the mirror forsaken as she finds herself actually alone. Yet, the feeling in her chest knows better. She’s become accustomed to his essence, for lack of a better word. When he enters a room, when he’s not actively a part of the house, she knows. Understanding his presence as well as he does her is something she prides herself on.

He leaves, waiting for her downstairs.

Her eyes sweep over herself one last time. Her hair is professional. Her appearance is clean. She won’t let herself be late for work. Brushing back bangs from her face, Angela, less supernaturally, leaves the bedroom and heads for the stairs.

The second story house isn’t grand, but it fits Angela’s needs well enough. Throughout the last few weeks, Angela painted every wall, replaced every old, dusty part of a room, and applied care to every inch within. The interior blossomed into a cozy, comfortable space. When she walks through the door, it welcomes her back with familiar arms.

The demon appreciates her efforts. Genji’s given his ghostly hands to apply primer to the walls and to remove ugly floors that would have taken Angela days. In these times, she watches him work as if made of flesh and bones. If the thought stirs around in her head too much, a half-crazed laugh threatens to burst from her lips.

A demon, helping her paint her house.

She would take it, any day. Perhaps she couldn’t have noticed it before him, but she was lonely. Not desperately so, as there is Jack, and a number of personal colleagues, but Genji’s lingering touch on her cheek brings clarity to her mind. The notice of an empty space in her life. A want for intimacy and honest, genuine love.

When Genji’s red eyes flashed mischievously as he smeared a line of purple on her cheek, a burst of warmth filled her soul.

He talks during those times. They settled into a natural rhythm as they coated the walls in happy, pale purples and rich browns. His dark voice rumbled about the families who didn’t bother to glance at the poor condition they moved into. Part of his anger stirred from their lack of concern for his house. Their dirty feet trudged through the place he dwells, apathetic, unaware.

Listening is an easy gift to give, and giving it is seamless. When he speaks, he moves rivers through her. Sometimes, the dark, concerning thoughts of his isolation rear up in the back of her mind. Dwelling on the last time Genji actually had someone to talk depresses her heart.

Perhaps that is a piece of why they fit together so well.

Down the steps, Angela fixes her blouse. At the bottom landing, a wall of chilled air slams against her person. Goosebumps creep across her skin like a lethal whisper.

Something’s wrong.

“Genji?” Angela calls, crinkling her brow.

She continues forward, sweeping over the open living room before the kitchen starts the intuition in her gut. Through the open entryway, an invisible current of electricity darts through the space.

“Genji—Oh!”

Angela stops. Her lips, curling in disgust and shock, part with a small noise. Her hands lift, as if to get away from the sight on the floor. Her fingers clench close to her chest.

A dead, bloody white bird rests on the wooden floor of her kitchen.

A physical presence of Genji appears behind her, still crackling the air with his negative reaction. He’s angry, but why? A few other questions tumble through Angela’s mind, frozen on the sight of the dead bird.

She turns partly away from the disturbing sight, looking to Genji. He stands like a dark storm. The red markings on his face are twisted with barely contained fury. His irises flicker over to her. For a heartbeat, concern washes out the violent color.

“Do you know how it got in here?” she asks, not wanting to spare a glance to the deceased bird.

There have been pigeons trying to make a nest by the chimney on the roof. That explains the bird, but now how it got into the house. Could it get down the chimney? Even then, how did she, or Genji, not hear it flapping around within a close space? That also doesn’t explain the bloody mess staining its white feathers.

Angela’s breastbone holds back the pounding of her heart. It doesn’t long to leap from her chest from Genji being so close, or the house she’s made a home within, but from the dead bird. The eerie sight drips foreboding cells into her bones.

“No,” Genji says.

He turns his head, landing on the basement door just visible outside of the kitchen. Angela follows his line of vision but he steps closer to her side. His fingers wrap around her hand, holding on fiercely for a moment. The cooling sensation of his touch immensely calms her racing thoughts.

“I’ll clean this up. You have to go to work,” he says, almost into her ear, as if he doesn’t want anyone to listen in to their dear exchange.

“Is everything alright?” Angela asks, searching his eyes.

He meets her gaze. His face of horns and red markings only cover dark marble. He nods so firmly that it dismisses any of her concern. Perhaps he’s just upset that he didn’t notice it long before she did. Genji’s aware of her aversion to violence. Something like this would startle her, and it did.

“Okay,” she breathes. She squeezes his fingers as a tentative glance down to the poor creature reveals another wave of revolt. “If you could find a shoebox in the upstairs closet and put the bird in it, I’ll bury it when I get home.”

He nods again. His stone like expression doesn’t change. Angela doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t grimace either.

A chill hangs in the air as Angela walks around the kitchen island just to reach a breakfast bar. The thought of eating is nowhere near her mind, but she’ll need the energy. Genji disappears. Somehow, that makes the slightly raised pulse running through her limbs all the more noticeable.

She again takes the long way around the dead animal lying on the floor. Reaching the front door, Angela frowns to herself as she puts on her jacket. An early fall wind is cooling off the nights. It lingers in the morning like chalk drawings on cement. Her mind restlessly searches for an answer. An answer to a question she doesn’t even know herself.

“Angela.”

A brief moment of darkness wraps around her. Registering the weight of arms around her person, and the carefully placed touch of his cheekbone against her own, Angela breathes out slowly. In the sweetness of Genji’s embrace, she has a precious moment. She holds onto him, hand in his hair while carefully avoiding the red spikes protruding from his dark shoulders. Her heart learns to be quiet again. Any thoughts of dead birds and bloody floors leaves her.

“Come back safely,” he murmurs into her hair. The cords of his voice are a little huskier, a little rougher.

“I will,” she smiles a his comment request. “I’ll see you soon.”

*

In the back of Angela’s mind throughout her constant work at the hospital, the dead bird flaps around. It smears its blood into her thoughts in the rare times she sits down at her desk. Between patients and files, she’s not allowed long to dwell on the matter. Yet, it dwells on her.

It’s simply so strange. The territory she treads with Genji involves the very concept. A demon and the reality of souls is something Angela can wrap her head around, but a random dead bird?

Genji was so angry. His rage filled the space like the taste of ozone after a lightning strike. Angela has come to know his reactions as personal, stemming from deep rooted aspects that he tries to contain. They exist with great reason.

Genji glanced to the basement. Only for a moment, but it slips curiosity into the back of Angela’s mind. In a way, the action reminisces of Zenyatta’s caution with regards to the cellar. He never said he did or didn’t like it, but if Angela searched his expression, she would find the smallest frown on his face when gazing at the door leading into the space below the floor. She didn’t ask for clarity, fearing his answer would only stir up Genji’s anger.

Small speculations of Genji’s presence being strongest in her bedroom would leave her blushing, but Zenyatta wasn’t so amused. Once, he theorized that Genji died there, and the demon only offered a slamming drawer in response.

After Zenyatta had taken his leave, Angela asked Genji if there was any truth in the monk’s words. In any tread towards his family, which is still a very delicate, sore subject, Genji will grow furious, or silent. His lips pressed together. His horns turned away as his red irises couldn’t hold her for a moment.

“Yes, in a sense,” he said. “The house has been rebuilt several times over the century but the space your bedroom takes up is the same as where I was killed by my brother.”

She didn’t press him any further. Her hand gently caught his cheekbone, and eased him against her chest. The sound of her heart and her warm arms drove away the days that are darker than a moonless night.

Her mourning lays on the one who she still holds.

A calm blood flows through her system when she drives home. When she walks through the door, a soft kiss from Genji touches her lips. His scarlet eyes drink her image in as he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. The same, yet somehow, more. Angela cups his hand against her cheek before signing and asking for the shoe box.

Genji gives it. The weight inside presses on her stomach, causing it to twist.

“I’ll bury it quickly, and then maybe call someone about the birds nesting on my roof,” Angela says.

Genji nods, slipping his hand away from her face. The presence of his stare lingers on her shoulders until she closes the door behind her.

The early evening sun dismisses any idea of fall. Yet, if she stands still long enough, a cold breeze will remind of autumn months. Staying light on her feet, Angela walks to the backyard. Her fingertips grip the shoebox as to minimize physical contact. The poor thing. She doesn’t want more dead birds flying down the chimney.

At a small section of her garden filled with herbs, an empty square rests in the corner. It’s hard to reach with the hose. After repeated failures of dead basil, Angela gave up on planting anything there. The soil is hard. A hand shovel and a little sweat breaks the dirt enough. After Angela carves out a respectable square, she takes the shoebox across her lap.

In the heat of the direct sunlight and her worked up heart, Angela stares down. Apprehension stirs inside her like poison.

What killed the bird?

Slowly, she eases the lid open. Crumpled along one side of the box, the white bird slumps. Patches of slick red stain the animal. Her nose crinkles at the sight, but her eyes sweep over the damaged.

On its breast, the moist blood clumps. White feathers are drenched in the substance, nearly forsaking the idea of white feathers on such a beautiful creature. Angela dares to lower her head closer. Inspecting the most grievous tear, she almost bites her tongue in her surprise gasp.

The place she would guess a bird’s heart to be is gouged in, as if something meant to rip it out with bare force. Or maybe, it was torn apart from the inside out.

As Angela quickly shuts the box, nearly slamming it down, her eyes catch something else as well.

It’s not a pigeon, but a dove.

*

Genji’s music plays softly in the background. The music player and speaker system she leaves for him when she’s gone does wonders for the demon. Some of the classical music is as forigen as Genji’s native language, but to watch him hum softly along to the notes is a gift in and of itself. It keeps playing as Angela cooks dinner. He watches, or tries to help, but cooking in a modern day kitchen isn’t his forte. Still, she kisses his knuckles after his efforts.

Some of her ramblings could kill a person with boredom. She would fear the same for Genji if he weren’t already a spirit. Yet, his attention remains on her lips. Red eyes focus, unwavering and entirely spellbound. What isn’t medical and detailed about her surgeries is often mundane. Angela waits for the day he tells her that she talks too much, but somehow, he almost clings to the normalcy of her life, and the sound of her voice.

He sits across from her on the couch, legs perched almost like a sparrow. Another bird. They’ve been tainted in her mind as of late, and it takes all her will to hide the grimace that longs to lunge around her face. Angela tries to think of something else Genji resembles. Maybe a cat, like in the times he’ll curl up on her lap as Anglea cards her fingers through his hair.

As she talks about her day, the demon listens. The bowl she ate out of rests on the coffee table, empty now. Genji scoots across the little space to brush a hand over her thigh, and offer a comment about one of her co-workers. It makes her laugh.

In the high of the moment, a dark cloud passes over Genji’s careful, stone expression. The red marks on his bone white face darken.

Angela’s breath stops in her lungs. Placing her hand on his chest, Genji looks up, surprised.

“Genji? Is everything alright?”

He blinks slowly. The motion of looking away almost starts but he kills it before it can really begin. The demon’s eyes lower. His shoulders, decorated with red spikes, shift under the invisible sky he bears.

Her eyes have been trained to see him, even when he doesn’t want to be seen.

Angela straightens her spine. Twisting herself to face him on the couch, crossing her legs, she searches for his eyes. Once she catches him, glinting in self-loathing misery, she eases his chin up with her hand.

“You see right through me,” he chuckles, but it’s dry and flat.

“Is this about the bird?” she asks.

“No,” he quickly says. He takes her hand from his chin and clasps it between both of his own. Her fair skin is captured between the darkness of his cool, strong fingers. “No.”

The silence stretches in Angela’s patience and Genji’s struggling tongue. He holds her gaze.

“Angela,” he starts in his midnight river of a voice, “I’m already dead. What I can give you is nothing but stagnation and deprivation. A normal, growing life isn’t a reality you can have with me.”

Her lips part as her brow furrows. She shakes her head. Before shocked words can form her in throat, Genji barrels on.

“You’re in the prime of your life. I won’t be the reason you lose years that you could have been living better to stay here and haunt this house with me,” he swears.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Angela waits. Genji stares at her, attempting to read past the furrows of her face. His horns tilt in slight confusion. Silence lies around them like the dead air within a crypt.

Finally, Genji says, “Angela?”

Slowly, Angela takes his hands. Curling her fingers around his, a bridge anchoring their hearts, Angela breathes out slowly. He’s fearful for her. For her soul, for damaging it, for doing more harm than good because of what he is.

He’s also loney, and doomed, and scared of losing the one good thing in his existence after so long of being nothing but a spook in the night.

“I know a life with you wouldn’t be normal,” she says softly.

She rubs her thumb over his dark knuckles. In his strict control, Genji doesn’t react save for the minor motion of him becoming deathly still. As if he was ready for this eventuality. As if she would break off his love so easily.

Angela lifts her eyes, and captures Genji in her firm gaze.

“I’m still going to stay with you.”

His brow lifts, so heartbreakingly surprised that Angela nearly pulls him into a hug then. His wide eyes linger for a second too long before he remembers what he was supposed to be doing.

“I can’t give you children,” he shoves in like a wedge.

As physical as Genji can make himself appear, he’s still not a body of flesh and bones. They both learned this after a few nights of intimacy.

“I don’t want kids now, and if I change my mind, adoption is an option,” Angela answers smoothly.

Genji makes a face. His mouth opens to argue the idea of a demon being a father but changes his direction.

“You can’t marry a demon,” he points out.

“I don’t need to if he already loves me.”

He softens then, so much that she believes the matter is done. His grip shifts on her hands. Holding on a little tighter, the demon’s horns cut through the air as he looks at her. Red eyes that she’s come to know as safety and affection fill her.

“Angela… I still want you to know that if you want something more, you should take it. My life is over, but don’t let yours end until your old and gray,” he says softly.

The ever present reminder of Genji’s cut-short life haunts Angela’s heart. It lingers within, a winter cold that refuses to pass on to spring. The weight it attaches to her blood depresses her entire body. She can’t save him, it’s far too late for such things, but she will find a way to help ease his demonic state. 

“The reassurance isn’t needed. But thank you,” Angela speaks in kind.

She lifts one dark hand to her mouth. Brushing her thumb over the bumps and ridges detailing his knuckles, Angela lays her lips. The breath out of her nose dusts the back of his hand. The supernatural tendons in his grip tighten, physically willing her kiss to last long into the years.

Her mouth lifts away, and she smiles away whatever doubts the demon may contain.

“I love you,” Angela says.

Genji leans forward, crossing part of a couch cushion to deliver his truth against her lips.

“I love you, too,” Genji murmurs, and kisses her as softly as the day turns into night.

*

Angela hides her thoughts from Genji as they lay down. The bed molds to their familiar presence. Angela wraps her arms around him while pressing against his back. The cool touch of his body soothes the day’s tension away. Holding him relaxes every muscle. Genji—oh, Genji loves being held, and she has this delicate need to hold him after everything he said. Yet, her eyes hold reflections of weary stars. The weight of Genji’s words from their conversation earlier lies against her lungs.

He’s right, in a way. She will grow old, and Genji will remain the same being he always has. Of course she’ll stay, but by staying, she’ll make him watch her entire life go on, and eventually, end.

He’ll remain in this house, alone.

Her fingers squeeze into a fearful, frustrated fist against his side. Turning her cheek, she lays it against one of his shoulder blades. Genji breathes out softly, the action empty of any real necessity but it plays like a lullaby.

There has to be something Angela can do. A way to give him peace and rest. Whatever it costs, she’ll find it, search the ends of the earth for it.

Taking this silent promise, she seals it against her heart. Genji’s dark hands lay over her arms as they rest around his torso. Unknowingly, he seals it into her rib cage too. The promise of action gives up the restless fight. Holding the comforting body of her love, Angela snuggles closer. Sleep comes like a gentle wave washing over her.

Until something goes bump in the night.

Angela eyes flash open. How long had she rested? A few hours, maybe. A blanket of darkness forces her vision to adjust. The tasteless sensation of the late hour settles over her skin like black mist.

Genji isn’t in her arms. Her bed is too big and too empty.

Another unmistakable noise echoes downstairs. The force threatens to shake the entire frame of the house, startling Angela enough to sit up. The violent image of a body slamming into a wall pierces her mind, for the sound gives nothing less.

“Genji,” she whispers. Her fingers twist the sheets over her heart.

The air is too warm, creating a sheen of sweat over her skin. Tonight, it’s still late summer. In only a thin pajama tank top and shorts, Angela throws her legs off the bed and onto the floor. Her tiptoes cross the floor, heading to the top of the stairs.

“Genji?”

The spiritual presence he gives doesn’t touch Angela’s soul. Furrowing her brow, she stops just as another crashing thud hits a wall on the ground floor. Her hand rests on the banister. A glance down the stairs reveals the darkness of her house. Nothing else. Her stomach twists. A warning in her gut tells her to run.

It’s just Genji, she tells herself. She takes the steps slowly down, straining her ears for whatever may come next. Angela doesn’t notice her own wide eyes as she stops before the living room. She stands in the open space with a slight view into the kitchen, the front door at her back, the stairs to her left, and the basement door directly in front of her. Far away, but dead ahead.

The strange, adrenaline inducing noise hits the basement door. Sheer force rattles it to the point Angela fears it will fly right off its hinges. It holds. Her lungs’ tempo picks up. Her fingers curl, hiding the fear in the lines of her palms as she holds them up slightly.

“Genji?” she whispers.

The basement door knob jiggles. The noise sends her heart tumbling. It turns. Slowly, slowly, slowly, it turns, and swings open.

In the shade of darkness rising out of the windowless, below ground cellar, a figure of pure black color stands in the doorway. The only distinction is a face of bones. Not like a human skull. The cut and shaped brings the idea of an owl, or a death bringer. Two, pupils of red blink into existence.

A demon.

But it’s not Genji.

“Angela!” Genji’s disembodied voice shouts in warning.

Angela freezes, breathing out a silent gasp that turns into cold mist. The room becomes winter. Goosebumps crawl over her skin. The intuition, the logical need to survive within Angela’s brain screams to run.

She can’t. Not until the figure rushes forward like a gush of black smoke.

The formless being of her love crashes against the impossible. Two shadows, blurring the lines of reality, struggle against the other. Frozen before the sight, Angela lifts a hand. A scream echoes of Genji’s name. Her voice registers late in her own eardrums.

“Get the orb!” Genji cries from within the struggle.

Angela’s pounding heart stalls at the very suggestion. The swirling madness of black smoke and red shadow bring ice into the room. A cold, iron taste spreads across her tongue. The blood in her legs finally flows. Angela’s mind muddles across a frozen lake of fear.

Another demon. Another demon fighting Genji. The orb repels all unholy things.

Angela finally runs, racing up the stairs at a dead sprint. It’s all she can do to stay steady in the physically offsetting thunder of her heart. A rush of what she can only describe as a cemetery wind echoes in her eardrums.

Her foot touches the top step. Claws snatch her ankle, digging into her flesh. She cries out. The piercing into her skin makes her stumble. Her eyes land on the bedroom. At a slim angle, she can see the bedside table drawer. The one containing the golden orb Zenyatta gave to her for protection.

A scream rips out of her throat as the claws drag her back. Falling, Angela smacks her face on the top step before her arms can catch her. She racks the wooden steps for purchase. Down, the unknown entity drags her. The bottom of the stairs catches her body with a deep thump, rattling her ribs with promises of deep bruises.

Her gasping breaths near hyperventilation. Another killer. Another silver dagger waiting to cut her throat. Another evil who wants to inflict a brutal ending onto Angela’s life.

A demonic growl in Genji’s tone echoes. Angela only registers the quick absence of the painful knife like grip from her leg. More thumps, like the very one her thrown body just made, stamps throughout the living room. The air cackles with rage. Genji’s fury drives Angela to stand again. To get up and run. She runs up the stairs. She runs into the bedroom. She runs to the nightstand.

Angela’s shaking fingers rip over the drawer. The metal orb rolls before she scoops it up. Clutching it to her stomach, she turns, breathlessly shouting. He has to hear her call. The air freezes in the once too warm bedroom. The bedroom door swings open with an invisible wind.

The moment Genji manifests before her, taut and seething like she’s only seen him once before, the door flies open, smashing the wall underneath the knob.

A small gasp of fear escapes Angela’s throat. The red spikes breaking out of Genji’s shoulders bare themselves at the smoky figure in the doorway.

Eyes like those found in the dead of night along an empty road stare into Angela’s soul. The wavering shadows around its lower half gives the impression of a cloak or a true ghoul. The bone like face tilts. Genji growls. His backside is all that’s between her and the certain of a torturous death.

Nothing moves. A silence stretches. The warmth of the golden orb fills Angela’s palms. Her pulse thunders in her ears. Genji half crouches, defensive. Pure evil manifests in the doorway, but doesn’t take a step closer. Her pounding heart knows it enjoys the terror distorting her face.

“Go back to the hole you crawled out of,” Genji demands, his voice darker, deeper. The echo frightens Angela’s already terrorized veins.

“You’re the one who put me there,” he responds. No facade of a mouth moves. The bones are just a mask. The voice is gravelly, harsher than even Genji’s. Looming in the door, he looks only to Angela, and the orb in her hands. Her entire soul twists underneath the red pupil like gaze.

What does the demon mean?

“Begone!” Genji’s fury rises, rattling the entire room’s structure.

A cold, dead laugh starts low, then grows until it promises to linger in Angela’s nightmares. The demon’s smoky appearance spreads out. Thinner, and thinner, until nothing physical remains where it once stood.

“Death comes,” the disembodied voice promises.

Her fingers clutch the orb tighter. Her eyes fall on Genji, the only solace in the dark night.

Silence. It warms up by minor degrees. The room feels unsafe, somehow. Angela barely stands on her own legs, jelly like in her shock and horror. Genji, slowly, slowly, straightens, and looks to Angela. His red irises are burning. Rage taints the air like ash. He steps towards her, reaching for her but suddenly recoils with a quiet hiss.

The orb. Angela looks down, expression crumbling. She painfully returns to Genji’s near breaking jaw. The red marks on his face are stone. His horns would very well sizzle the walls. Carefully, he stays back.

If her fingers weren’t frozen in fear, she would have dropped the orb then just to take on Genji’s comforting embrace. Instead, all she can do is whisper.

“Genji… What was that?”

He stares back, the crinkles around his eyes boiling with rage. Yet, his teeth gleam with concern, and guilt.

“I’m sorry, Angela,” he breathes.

Those three words cut through her haze of terror and confusion.

“What?” she near silently asks.

Genji collapses under defeat, bowing his head.

“This is my fault. I made him into a demon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another haunting overtakes Angela’s home, more terrifying than anything she’s ever encountered, but less brutal with Genji’s constant presence watching over her. Together, they attempt to figure out how to get rid of Reaper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A funny thing about this continuation is that I get to dive into a really malicious demon dolling out spooky shenegains. Reaper’s out for revenge, where Genji was never so harsh on Angela as he fell in love with her before he could get really terrifying. Also, please note the warnings for this part!

A violent end. A sudden death. Traumatic, painful, all while invoking the hunger for revenge. The cornerstones to make a demon. Genji, unknowingly, built them all. 

The night the serial killer only known as Reaper sought out Angela’s life, Genji saved her. The sharp glint of a dagger would have plunged into her heart were it not for his actions. He stopped the killer. The way was full of gore and screams but there was nothing less deserving in Genji’s mind. In such circumstances, he wasn’t afraid to own his crown of horns. 

The death stirred up the already crazed man’s soul. His body was carried out of her house in pieces, but the spirit remained. It takes time for the vengeful soul to collect itself in the aftermath, and even less to set his dark marks of damnation. 

Genji, in his unwavering need to protect Angela, killed Reaper but secured his demonic soul in the house. 

How could he have known? He was only trying to protect her. 

Reaper’s back. A call for revenge and blood chills the air. Revenge on the one who killed him, and to finish what he came here to do. Ending Angela’s life, in the most gruesome manner possible. 

In the middle of the night, Angela sinks to the floor beside the corner of her bed. Her trembling body crashes from the adrenaline rush. A thin layer of terror embeds itself into the lining of her chest. Her bedroom is painted a happy yellow but stays gray in the darkness. The love she and Genji shared here is somehow disrupted, tainted. All done by the demon with a bone-like mask.

Directly across from her, Genji crouches on the balls of his feet. He stays tense. The slightest sign of Reaper appearing once more will make him take flight. His gaze sweeps from the closed door and back to Angela. She holds her knees to her chest. The orb presses against her hip on the ground. A shaky breath falls out of her lungs. Genji’s brow deepens with a depressing furrow that has yet to lift. 

“Did he hurt you?” Angela whispers. 

The fight from minutes ago brings back the first fateful night against the serial killer. Not even in Angela’s worst nightmares did she dream Reaper would turn into a demon. He makes up most of her frightening nights already. What he could do to Genji sends jolts of anxiety into her heart. 

Genji looks at her in disbelief.

“No. Nothing can hurt me, but he can hurt you. He already did,” his voice becomes a growl. The weight of his stare on her cheekbone, where a painful bruise already blooms, becomes heavy. “The orb will keep him away from you.”

“And you,” Angela adds quietly. 

Genji turns solemn and silent. 

The golden orb presses warmly into her hip bone. She glances down at it and hugs her knees tighter. 

He knows what this means. If she’s to stay in the house, she must have the orb on her at all times. The slight blood dripping down her foot from where Reaper’s claws punctured her flesh is reason enough. Already, the painful throb of bruises forming along the front of her torso nearly make her gasp out. Her cheekbone is the worst offender. Genji can see the broken blood vessels underneath her skin every time he looks at her. Each glance flashes haunting rage through his red irises.

Her arms cry out for the weight of Genji’s cool body. Her soul needs to hold onto him like the moment after a nightmare, the one he woke her up from. 

But the orb at her side shines a cruel reminder. The physical distance between their bodies acts like a chasm. 

Genji hardens his expression. 

“Reaper will stop at nothing to kill you,” he says. 

They hold each other’s gaze. A sob almost breaks out of Angela’s throat but she clamps it back. 

“Yes.” Angela doesn’t want to linger on the fact and focuses on what really concerns her heart. “You’re also trapped here with him.”

The emotion that has brought them together comes alive within the center of her person. Genji waits. He wants her to say the words that will lead her out of the house and to freedom and safety. He wants it, and he loathes it. He needs her safe, and he needs her touch.

How unjustly cruel. Angela can’t stare at Genji’s face without the overwhelming need to find a way to save him. Her fingers ache to reach out and brush against his cheek. 

This demon won’t take anything more away from them. 

“We’ll find a way to get rid of him.”

The sentence Angela utters sounds like a prayer, and jars Genji. 

“I won’t leave you alone with him, and he can’t harm me so long as I hold onto this,” Angela takes the orb in her palm. Her limbs tremble like a leaf but fear will not be her master. Slowly, she straightens from her curled up position, sitting up tall. “Zenyatta can help us. If he can’t, we’ll find another way.”

The demon before her isn’t just anger and fear. He’s surprised by her small gestures of kindness. Caution keeps him at a safe distance until she invites him closer. Soft, almost weak expressions give away his starvation of intimacy when Angela cards her fingers through his heart.

He is the love for her that grew before she knew his name. She remembers how this came to be while looking back at his worried, but hopeful eyes. Because even when she was scared, even when she did run away, she came back to face it. She faced him. And now, she will face this demon with him.

“You would be safe if you left,” Genji gently reminds.

“I know, but I’m not going to.”

A quiet beat passes. Heat melts from his brow into affection Anglea only knows when they lie down together. A fierceness spreads throughout his dark person. 

“I’ll protect you.”

“I know you will, Genji,” Angela says, and for the first time since Reaper appeared, she smiles. It’s weak and frail, her bottom lip trembles, but she smiles at Genji.

They will make a happy ending where there was only sadness. 

*

Angela doesn’t sleep on this dreadful night. She only gets through it because Genji sits across from her on the bedroom floor. The closest he can with the holy effect of the orb in her lap. His physical presence anchors her racing heart. One pillow is all she dares lie down with on the cool, bedroom floor. Close to the door, Genji crouches, ready. His attempts to soothe her into dozing off with comforting murmurs fails. On any night before, it would have work. The stark, fight or flight response lingering in her veins refuses to calm down. When she closes her eyes, a bone-white face stares back. 

An hour is all she can claim. Even then, before the time her alarm would usually ring on her phone, a shatter of glass jerks Angela awake. 

The killer. The killer is back. Panic like a ghostly wind sweeps over her as she cries out. The scar on her left arm from where his first slash caught her skin haunts her. 

Equal parts fury and protection jut off of Genji’s horns. His presence blocks out the howl of the nightmare. The silence stretches into minutes. Genji never relaxes, but slowly, Angela gathers herself. 

She’s been through one demon’s haunting. This is nothing new. 

Daylight is gentle, but it’s not a true shield. Still, she’s needed. One thing she will not let Reaper do is stop her from helping others. 

First, she has to hear Genji say that Reaper can’t harm him. If they do fight again, it will only bring damage to the house. He has to point out his lack of blood and bones but her concern isn’t swayed. She asks him to not confront Reaper, knowing it will be near impossible with his rage. So long as she isn’t in the house, Genji has no inhibitions against the other demon. 

“Please, Genji,” Angela pleas softly. “Stay away from him.”

His red eyes flash and his fangs bare themselves, but he nods.

“I’ll try,” he growls. Not at her but towards the basement. 

The orb resting in her purse keeps him a few feet away. Her toes dance with the idea of running into his arms. The lines of her palms long to hold his face, but she can’t. The warm, golden artifact of the monk keeps Genji, and Reaper, at bay. A double-edged sword. 

Acid churns in her belly as she fears what Genji will have to face alone in the house with Reaper. 

In the blissful, warding sunlight, Angela descends the stairs. Genji has already disappeared from sight but his defensive energy hangs in the air like a sweet scent. Blocking how deep the demon’s claws dug into her ankle is all her mind can do. A thin bandage wraps her skin now. 

Every step down is careful and controlled for the bruises on her ribs aren’t kind. The one on her cheekbone from smacking her face on the stairs after being ripped back is carefully concealed with make-up. 

While she was patting the foundation on, Genji boiled behind her. His dark hands tensed as if dreaming of wrapping around Reaper’s throat.

Reaching the front door, Angela stops. The silence stretches, dousing sorrow on what would have been a hug and kiss goodbye. Angela looks to where Genji silently stands. The demon’s red eyes and markings are pinched. Loathing isn’t a strong enough word to describe how he views the space between them. 

Past his person, and the living room, the basement door creaks open. No visible hand causes it to swing. A frigid air expels from the space, breathed out by an icy beast. Her eyes widen. Her grip on her purse tightens as Genji whirls around, growling.

No figure appears. It’s only a taunt. A reminder. An ever lingering threat. 

“Be careful, Genji,” Angela’s level voice is far from her pounding heart.

He only tilts his head in the slightest form of acknowledgment.

“Go, Angela,” he tosses over the red spikes protruding from his shoulder. 

She steps out the front door with a heavy, fearful heart.

*

Six days. Angela and Genji must wait six days for Zenyatta to visit the new haunting overtaking their home. He’s gone away with a few of his Shambali brothers and sisters, visiting another holy site to their religion. He told her of this trip as they drank coffee in the living room before. As she wonders how long Reaper has been silently lurking, a fear whispers that this is why Reaper chose now to strike.

A demonic haunting can’t be so terrible the second time around. She already knows ghosts and spirits to be a fact. Angela grits her teeth and returns home. Genji appears, out of her reach, but he confirms that Reaper did nothing. A breath leaves her lungs that she’s held since she stepped out the front door. 

The glass Genji and Angela heard shattering this morning was from the private office room. It’s where Angela stores any work she takes home. One window is completely damaged. Jagged pieces act like a clawed hand reaching out within the bottom half of the frame. A tiny ball of fear inside her stomach imagines this to be a reminder of when he first broke into her house. Angela quickly sweeps up the shards. She covers the window with a curtain and cardboard that she duct tapes, bracing for whatever else the demon will throw at them.

Angela quickly realizes that Reaper is not a demon like Genji. Genji was only scaring people out of his home. Reaper wants to kill. His evil is so blatant and cruel that she almost falters at enduring another day.

Throughout all hours of the night and day, bumps echo. Objects, without warning, fall to the ground or sail across the room, usually aiming for Angela’s head. She steels her nerves to stop jumping at every little noise.

During it all, Genji stays as close to her side as he’s able to. Angela takes out a smaller, cross-body purse she had in the closet and sets the orb within. Walking with it inside her house becomes less troublesome. The warm but indiscriminate orb keeps her safe, and the demons away. Angela and Genji can only share words. His eyes give away more than he would on his tongue, but Angela understands well enough. 

They’re not alone, but oh, he wishes they were. 

The nights are the worst. Reaper appears then, darkening a doorway with black smoke and a bone white face. Lying on her bed, praying that the covers hide her racing pulse, Angela hardness her expression. She refuses to give him the pleasure of her fear. Yet, she wonders if he can sense it like blood in the water. 

Genji’s fierce and unwavering against the other demon. He stands between Angela even as she clutches the orb to her person. His warnings serve as menacing threats to Reaper. She’s forgotten how terrifying Genji can be when his darker voice lashes out. 

Taking showers is the most stressful activity. She’s put it off for a number of days out of sheer fright of being vulnerable. However, on the fourth night, she and Genji slip into her small bathroom. Undressing is paralyzing. The small size of the bathroom thankfully allows the orb to do fine work, but it pushes Genji to the door. He stands on guard. 

“Reaper’s in the basement,” Genji quietly informs. “I’ll warn you if he starts coming.”

The bruises on her rib cage are beginning to fade. Genji stares at the healing yellow marks, brow crinkled as Angela slowly steps into the shower. She only pulls the curtain halfway around. The need to see Genji’s face combats the sense to not get water all over the floor. 

Genji confirms Reaper’s still in the basement after she turns the shower handle. The falling hot water is a small oasis. Slowly, the double knots in her muscles come undone. Her greasy hair finally gives way to wet and clean. However, it’s difficult to truly enjoy it with the icy threat of Reaper being unbound to mortal barriers of walls and doors. Quickly, Angela cleans herself as Genji stays in the corner of her vision. 

Until she shuts off the water. The moment the last drop hits the floor of the shower, Genji struggles to control his voice when he speaks.

“He’s coming!”

Genji throws Angela her towel as her heart leaps into her throat. 

This demon already torments their home, but his sick need to see tortured faces of horror pushes him further and further. 

The thickness in her throat bubbles. She wants to shout, to demand that the demon leave them alone. This is their home he’s trying to tear down. Anger and fright boil in her blood. It’s useless though. He’s already coming. 

The orb gleams on a small shelf within the shower. Angela glances at it, carefully tucking the towel around herself. Genji turns and growls a sharp warning to what lies behind the bathroom door. The tips of his red horns are sharp. The mist of the shower makes the orb slick. Cautiously, Angela takes it with an iron grip. The holy metal heats up. Another silent warning to what waits outside.

Reaper’s voice creeps underneath the door. 

“How cliche…” he muses darkly. “A woman in the shower. I really should have knives.”

She trembles as pure malice ring through the humidified air. Her feeble heart shakes. What little bravery she clings to threatens to shatter as Genji faces the monster alone.

“Pull the shower curtain all the way around, and do not look,” Genji says. His red eyes see what her mortal irises can’t perceive. What lies just outside the bathroom door drops the temperature within the bathroom. 

Numbly, her hand manages to pull it around like a shield. Orb in hand, heart galloping like a runaway horse, Angela can only glimpse the growing shadow emerging into the bathroom. 

It’s quick and unworldly. Two powerful, negative energies clash like lightning hitting a tree. Only the end results of the burning and splitting can be caught by the eye. The heavy cast of thrashing shadows on the shower curtain stops Angela’s lungs. 

A silent plea echoes in her heart. Genji has to be strong. Reaper will return to the depths of the basement. The demon can’t do anything physical to Genji, but he can get to Angela. The minor bruises on her skin have been torturous enough for her love. 

The short, otherworldly bangs and crashes fall short. By some miracle, Reaper retreats, sucking away the ice in the air. Angela holds her breath. The silence grips her before she catches Genji’s quiet presence. A few seconds pass in pure agony. Genji’s voice flows over her like a day without water.

“He’s gone,” his rumbling voice is quiet, “but you should get dressed quickly.” 

Angela pushes aside the shower curtain. Her hand clutches her towel and the orb to her body. Genji stands just before the now open bathroom door. Deep gouges mimicking claws mar the wood. He’s furious but unharmed. His gaze lands on her, more crimson than ever. Slowly, the red spikes on his shoulders lower. 

“He’s gone,” Genji promises again.

But he’s still here, in their home, terrifying them both. 

The stinging in Angela’s eyes betray the feeble facade of bravery. Genji starts at the sight, lifting a hand as if to wipe away a tear. He can’t take a step closer. The orb forces him not to. Angela wants his touch so desperately, wants Reaper to be gone so terribly, but they stay feet apart.

It’s only half of what Reaper does to them. 

No matter how many jackets Angela layers on, she’s constantly cold. Every room is as cool as an autumn night. She shivers and bounces her legs to keep her muscles warm. The guilty looks Genji holds when her breath appears in the air makes her want to curse. He’s never made it this cold. It’s Reaper’s doing. 

The demon’s twisted, gravelly laughter haunts Angela. It echoes randomly, sending a chill through her bones. She can’t breathe until the demon finally stops. Genji talks over it when it happens. His handsome voice cuts through the worst of it. Slowly, she learns to tune out the dark hackles. 

Laughter is not all Reaper taunts them with. One late night, his gravelly, disembodied voice remarks on how pretty the scar traveling the entire length of Angela’s left arm is. The one his knife created. She tries to tuck her arm close to her side and conceal the marred skin. Genji snarls in a warning. The bone face demon responds in kind, vowing to rip her open like he first did. Reaper will finish what he started. 

Snapping like a wolf, Genji nearly drags the demon back into the basement then were it not for Angela saying his name in worry.

She wears long sleeves afterward, even in the hot, late summer days. The impressions of Genji’s kisses on the scar is what she remembers instead of the knife. 

Worry alone isn’t keeping her from sleep. Every single night has a nightmare Angela bolts upright from. It’s always Reaper. His clawed hands, more than she’s ever seen, grab her entire body and drag her into the basement. The door shuts on her screams, and it’s over. Her heaving lungs send Genji to her side. Desperately, he tests the orb’s strength, failing constantly with a hiss. His recovery is his soft voice telling her she’s safe, she’s safe, it’s only a dream. He won’t let Reaper hurt her. His dark hands reach out but never caress her cheek. His fingers can’t brush back the hair that has fallen in her face from her sheer panic. 

Genji knows Reaper’s infecting her dreams, but she’s not the only one Reaper haunts.

When Angela is safely away, Reaper flashes terrible teeth that dig into Genji. Delightfully, the demon turns on the one who ended his mortal life. Angela learns of the caliber Reaper uses on Genji during one dark night. She wakes up abruptly to bickering outside her bedroom door. 

She’s all too aware of the pain Genji takes on. To not have a body and live alongside Angela is a certain kind of torture. Reaper sees this tear in the armor, too, and rips it wide open.

“You’re so willing to watch her live and then die.” the darker voice mocks. 

Genji only responds with a growl. 

“Her soul is bright. It hurts to look at. How could you not want to darken it with an existence with you?”

A strange sound like two winds cutting through each other echoes. A blow was given, maybe.

“You’ve already damned her,” Reaper growls. 

Genji doesn’t respond. Only a quick scuffle breaks out and ends with the basement door slamming, shaking the entire house. The rippling quiet is deafening. She even holds her breath. Slowly, Genji eases her bedroom door open. Slipping inside, he shuts the door softly with a weary hand. His gaze lands on her, not at all surprised to find Angela sitting up in bed with the orb in her lap.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs for the hundredth time. He can’t see past his blame in making Reaper. 

“He’s the corrupted one, Genji,” Angela says, as she always does. “He was already a demon in life.”

In the darkness, her love only holds her gaze. Red eyes can’t forgive, and red horns can’t stop fearing an eventuality. If she could wrap her arms around him now, he would remember why they’re enduring this together, but the orb is her shield and saber. 

She touches the golden orb. It warms her lap. The night sky outside her window is still, calm. The blue dimness inside stretches like an ocean. Staring at his heavy shoulders, Angela breathes out slowly.

She won’t let Genji bleed out before her eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Genji tilts his head. The angle of his horns become dramatic in the starlight through the window.

“He’s in the basement. He’s not going to scare you tonight—what are you doing?”

She’s already placing the orb on top of the nightstand. Quickly, she throws her legs off the side of the bed and hurries across the cold floor. Genji freezes. His hands raised as if to ward her away. 

“We have a few moments,” she promises. She’s sick of the other demon ruining everything else. The least they can have is one second of each other. “He’s not here. It’ll be okay.”

He turns his head, eyes that sense far more than hers gauging the reaction of the one below. His fingers curl. The caution, the sensibility on his tongue needs to persuade her back to safety, but his hands are already reaching out. They’ve been empty of her for far too long. 

In the place outside of the holy sphere’s touch, they meet. Genji’s arm slips around her waist, tugging her closer until she’s pressed against his chest. Angela rests her hand over where his heart would be. A breath of love leaves her lungs. As Genji buries his face in the crook of her shoulder, Angela cards her fingers through his ebony hair. 

“I missed you,” she whispers through the thickness of her throat. In her brave facade, she hadn’t let her longing for his affection bubble up to the surface, until now. 

“Angela,” he breathes out his weariness against her skin. 

His embrace stays secure around her waist, mindful of her healing bruises. Yet, his cool presence eases what pulses with pain. Smothering her cheek against him, the idea of anything evil coming from Genji is absurd. He’s good, even in his curse. He’s loving, even in his hatred for far worse things. 

Reaper’s wrong. She’s become brighter because of Genji, and she hopes fervently that she casts the same light on him. 

Genji hungers for physical contact, but he still gently lifts his head and steps back. His fingertips trail off of her hips like raindrops dripping over the edge of a roof. Angela lets him. He silently tilts his head towards the orb. Angela already wants to throw the thing out the window just to take Genji’s hand again, but she nods. She sets a stronger air to her face than what stirs in her lungs. 

In the half-second Angela steps back, glancing at the orb but not yet cast in its effect, Genji cries “NO!”

The room temperature drops. Angela gasps. Genji disappears from sight. The bedroom door flies open, crushing drywall underneath the knob. 

Energy as black as evil bursts into the room, swelling like puffs of smoke from a large chimney. It’s cut apart for a second. Genji. It sweeps around the little resistance. Her limbs are frozen. Adrenaline and even the small part of her that always fights to survive shuts down entirely. Overwhelming, blinding fear attacks every nerve. Her soul cries out in fright of being destroyed. 

The black smoke lunges. Somehow, her jaw unlocks just enough to scream. A face of white bone and red pupils flashes in the chaos. 

The darkness leaps into her chest. A handsome voice shouts her name in pure terror. 

Her soul, a concept as real as her own body, has never been physically touched before. The brightness Genji so reverently spoke about is crushed in dark fog. She has no way to describe the sensation aside from being pulled inside her own chest. 

She can’t see. There is only darkness. It’s as if she’s been shoved into a room filled with dense, black smoke. Instead of coming off of a fire, the smoke freezes her blood. She struggles like a worm on a sidewalk. Slowly, clawed hands wrap chains around her blind, deaf self. As thick as blood and as heavy as sin. The chains bring her to her knees, binding her, gagging her. Angela is acutely aware of the separation from her own fingers and toes, then her legs and arms. Lastly, her heart doesn’t beat as it should. Its tempo is forced by cruel hands into a strange rhythm. 

A deep, gravelly voice laughs everywhere around her. Inside and out. There is not one precious inch it doesn’t occupy. Angela shivers, dangerously cold. This is the end. She’s being dragged to a frozen hell and can’t even scream. 

_“Death becomes you.”_

Angela’s soul stops struggling in Reaper’s grasp.

*

In a quiet, unassuming house, a demon stands before the woman he loves. The night air holds its breath. Every little creatures’ heartbeat skips. An unholy tread leaves its mark with darkness.

A moment. It was all it took. One moment. Genji was smelling the honeysuckle scent of Angela’s hair. He didn’t sense Reaper slipping out of the deepest part of the house. His pathetic need to feel human again made him weak. A promise breaks as he stands. 

He shouts her name again. Manifesting into a physical form, he catches Angela’s body as it contorts. Her back arches disturbingly, fearing implying a snap will follow. To Genji’s flashing relief, it doesn’t. She convulses painfully. Her half-open eyes only show white. A strangled noise leaves her throat. Genji lowers her to the floor, hardly able to resist unleashing pure rage at the swift trick Reaper pulled. 

Genji hovers above her heart. He supports her back with one arm as the other lifts his dark hand. His brow narrows, snarling at what struggles within her. 

A mass of black ink surges around the bright, sun-like soul within Angela. The layers of physical skin and bone matter not to his eyes. In her chest, Reaper takes up her heart. 

Swiftly, Genji’s hand becomes something more and something less of this world. He plunges it into her heart, passing through flesh. His desperate fingers snag Reaper by threads of his being. An inhuman growl lashes out of Angela’s throat.

“LET GO OF HER!” Genji yells.

Bent over her heart, Genji’s entire power focuses on ripping Reaper away from Angela’s soul. He of darkness and red rage bears down. Genji fights with a spirit he’s long since forgotten. Snarling, he tears away Reaper, inch by inch. 

A soft cry of pain escapes Angela. Her head flops back, unsupported. Her hair dangles as Genji remains unrelenting. More of Reaper stretches thin, losing grip on the pure thing he longs to destroy. A righteous fury builds in Genji’s center. A haunting hiss leaps from the energy being removed.

Out of the quiet night, a piercing scream leaps from Angela’s lips. The shrill sound of pure agony pierces Genji, ripping through the small aspect he calls love. His grip loosens for half a second. He lifts his head, searching Angela’s half-conscious face. A trickle of blood falls from one nostril, and one corner of her mouth. 

Reaper killing her. Genji stops, panicking. He almost says her name but in his fear, Reaper jumps out of his grasp. 

The brightness within Angela is swallowed up by inky smoke. 

Genji snarls. He lifts his hand again but Angela’s lifts instead. Her palm shoves him away but supernatural force throws him across the room. 

Wildly, Genji gathers his physical embodiment. He jerks his gaze back to the corner of the bedroom. A few feet away from the gold orb, Angela’s body stands up. 

Her eyes open, but it is not the ocean blue Genji knows. A wickedness tints the color. The wild fall of her hair curses her expression. Her brow is narrowed in a terrifying angle. Her head lowers, highlighting shadows across her expression. The line of her shoulders is pushed back, forced. The soft hands he knows she carries are curled into cruel, harsh fists. The wide length of her stance is frantic and threatening. 

Genji has only experienced this lowness of fear once before when he was alive. The absolute certainty that he’s about to lose the person he loves is set on a dark throne made of Angela’s white-gold hair.

Her jaw unlocks and bares a voice that twists her sweet cords into dark, disturbing tones. 

“She’s mine.”

Reaper, from inside of her. 

Baring his teeth, hiding the cry on his tongue, Genji turns on the demon.

Reaper steps forward on her leg. He moves her body like he has taken what was rightfully his. Bolting in a strange grace foreign to Angela’s limbs, the demon runs. 

No. Genji burns in a wicked fire. His love, tainted in darkness because of that demon creates an inferno. Genji sees only red, and the dark color of his love’s blue eyes. 

If Reaper steps one foot outside of this house in Angela’s body, it’s over. Genji’s haunting cements him to this place. He can’t follow if he gets outside. 

Genji swore his protection. He’s letting her be dragged away. After how tightly she holds onto him, his grasp will not loosen once more. 

_No._

Genji is limitless inside the space of this house. It doesn’t matter how fast Reaper runs with Angela’s body. Escape is not on the horizon. Angela’s body still breathes and carries a heartbeat. There is nothing in Genji’s damned essence that will allow him to take her away. 

Genji slips through the air like a whisper. Before Reaper can even glance with her eyes to the front door, he stands before it, seething. 

The other demon is quick and turns to the kitchen. Genji already spies the glint of the handles sticking out of the knife block. No. He’s a rush of wind as Reaper tries to reach for one. Her pale fingers stretch unnaturally for something so deadly. 

Genji snaps across the space and into a physical form. Not one more knife will cut her skin. Genji snakes his arm around Angela’s throat, Reaper’s, and rips him back. 

Genji hates using his strength to pin down her arms,_ her arms,_ but it’s not hers. Not now. Reaper’s infection works through her limbs, her veins. This is Reaper he pins against him and slowly puts to sleep. 

Deciding to take a body as a vessel leaves a demon vulnerable, as vulnerable as Angela.

“Get out of her before I destroy you,” Genji growls into Angela’s, Reaper’s, ear. 

The demon turns her cheek. Genji presses harder around her, his, throat. Go to sleep, Genji thinks. Go to sleep before Reaper uses her a second more.

Reaper bares teeth that only used to smile at Genji. 

“Destroy me,” her dark voice rasps, “I’ll destroy her, too.”

It takes every ounce of control to keep his fists from bunching. Reaper feeds off of Genji’s reactions. He forces laughter out of her strangled throat, twisted in his demonic cords. Holding her but with the intention to make her unconscious, Genji clenches his jaw until Reaper slumps against him. 

There remains a black cloud blocking out the sight of Angela’s soul. 

Slowly, Genji gently gathers Angela’s body into his arms. Lifting her bridal style, he beholds her face contorted with darkness. Grief washes over him. The sensation of crying or sobbing has been taken with his mortal life, but the messy need still arises within his person. She would almost appear peaceful were it not for the inky smoke hiding away the bright orb of light in her chest.

The small trickles of drying blood on her face glare up at him. Reaper has already proven himself deadly. His statements can’t be taken lightly.

There is no way Genji can get Reaper out of Angela without Reaper killing her in the process.

If Genji could take back that moment of weakness, tell Angela he won’t touch her and go back to the orb, she would be asleep. She would be safe. He would have kept his promise. If he could even find comfort in touching his lips to her skin, he would, but Reaper pollutes every inch of her. Even now, he’s only cradling Reaper’s possession. 

Genji is the reason for Angela’s falling, in every step leading downwards. 

He can’t see her soul. An eclipse hides her sunlight, leaving Genji is pure darkness. He’s completely alone and scared of losing his sunshine forever. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenyatta enters the house only to find someone who’s not quite Angela. Genji has done his best to keep Reaper contained but he doesn’t know how to save her by himself. However, he and Zenyatta won’t let Reaper keep the body he stole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers love, the calvary’s here! Actually, only Zenyatta, but his grand moment will be coming later. Plus, I finally get to tackle Genji’s and Zenyatta’s dynamics in a tone that doesn’t revolve around Genji hating the monk’s guts!

Zenyatta knocks gently on the door. He steps back, awaiting Angela’s appearance and a quick question of if he’d like coffee. Milk will surely be waiting beside their cups, as he doesn’t take any sugar. Missing coffee with Angela last week wasn’t the best situation, but after witnessing the demon’s aura around her, Zenyatta felt no fear in his absence. 

He waits. He keeps standing before her door. The essence of a dark dwelling leaks underneath it, rancid and vengeful. A sour taste spreads over his tongue. The familiar bitterness surrounding Genji’s spirit is far from what sets Zenyatta on the alert. 

He furrows his brow. A dangerous thought stomps in the back of his mind about the same eerie sensation extruding from the basement steps. What he presumed was the leftover stain of a deeply troubled soul secreted from the cellar. Only remnants of the serial killer known as Reaper, or so Zenyatta believed. 

It couldn’t be… 

“Dr. Ziegler,” he calls out as he lifts his fist to rap his knuckles on the door again. 

Before he can make contact, the door slowly swings open. Not a soul tugs on the handle. A cool, intangible presence invites him in. A dark energy sweeps over Zenyatta like nightfall. Goosebumps rises on his skin as he calmly steps into the house. He presses his fingers together, forming an upside down steeple. Without prompt, the door closes softly behind him.

Something’s wrong. 

Zenyatta feels his presence before he manifests himself. Slowly, Genji’s demonic body steps out of the shadows. His dark person stands in sharp contrast to the compassionate spirit Angela carries within her. A stark white face looks to him, decorated with red markings and horns as sinister as the devil. The demon’s eyes are an even worse scarlet, but they are crinkled with desperation and fear. 

Zenyatta looks over him, studying every aspect. Genji has never fully shown himself before, not in a physical sense. The demon would rather reject him from his home than appear. This alone sharpens his focus. Steadying his core, Zenyatta grips the edge of his kasaya. The yellow cloth hangs loosely on his person. Orbs of harmony reside inside the great pockets, protecting him from such entities as the one before him. 

“Where is she?” Zenyatta asks steadily.

Genji’s eyes close for a moment, containing himself before speaking. 

“You must help her,” his voice depresses into a chilly breeze of autumn, “Come this way.”

Maintaining his expression, Zenyatta nods carefully. His worst thoughts are confirmed. Never has such a demonic entity appeared so distraught before him. Fear lingers in the demon’s wake, overtaking Zenyatta’s person with what could have transpired in the time he was gone. Greater darkness stains these walls like blood.

Only Angela will unravel some of the tension roping his center. 

Zenyatta walks after the demon. Genji’s physical presence disappears, easing open the basement door without a real hand. The direction further cements Zenyatta’s suspicions. 

He should have known. It was never too obvious, or apparent. A part of Zenyatta believed it was only an aspect Genji was trying to conceal from him and Angela until the time was optimal, but this demon is the lesser evil. 

Wickedness took shape in the lowest part of Angela’s house. Zenyatta said nothing, having too much prejudice against the only demon he thought haunted the rooms. 

In the basement doorway, Zenyatta stands at the top of wooden plank steps. It descends into the dim light, thrown down by a bare, hanging lightbulb. The walls are cold concrete. He breathes in dank and musty air particles while stepping down. Genji’s presence slips past him, hurrying to one corner of the eerie room. The floor Zenyatta descends upon is only cruelly set together with slabs of stones, making the room even more uninviting. 

The pure form of darkness Zenyatta senses gathers in the farthest corner from the stairs. Upon a single mattress, no doubt ripped from Angela’s own bed, is shoved into the corner. One sheet provides a blanket of warmth as multiple pillows barricade a body. A ripped strip of white fabric, perhaps from another cover meant for the bed, wraps around a thick support beam. It proves to be a tether as the twisted strip of cloth leads to wrists, which are bound together. 

Zenyatta stops in his tracks. 

A face baring Angela’s features mocks surprise and innocent fear.

“Oh, Zenyatta! Please, help me! The demon is trying to—”

Zenyatta cuts through her too high pitched words with a single stringent look.

“I can sense you in her, demon.”

The act disappears like a candle snuffed out. Twisting her mouth into a scowl, the creature inhibition Angela’s body leans back. They sit neatly on the mattress, comforted with sheets and pillows, but a clear disdain leaks out of every joint of Angela’s body. They lower her hands into her cross-legged lap, for her upper arms are pinned to her torso with more strips of fabric. 

Possessed. 

This is the worse Zenyatta should have feared, and prevented. 

His gaze hardens. Like a cough of black smoke out of a chimney, the demon pollutes Angela’s spiritual essence. He clutches an orb hidden on his person. At a comfortable distance away from the monk, but close to the mattress’s edge, Genji appears. He crouches, looking to Angela’s face. Simultaneous grief and rage colors his haunting expression as he looms protectively. 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Genji murmurs, withholding shouts and sorrows. “He keeps trying to hurt her body, and the basement muffles noises. If someone came here and heard a woman screaming for help, they’d carry Reaper out of the house…”

The demon within Angela tilts her head low, stabbing daggers with her blue eyes. The cast of shadows upon her face is inhuman. Zenyatta wouldn’t believe this to be Angela if it weren’t for the faintest glimmer of herself within. The demon has twisted her physical appearance into a haggard reflection of the good doctor. 

“This is the best you could have done, considering the circumstances,” Zenyatta finally speaks, reassuring. 

The demon of red horns looks up at Zenyatta, for once lacking hatred steaming towards his spiritual essence. He nods. Concern still weighs him down. 

The voice that was once faking Angela’s suddenly lashes out in a cruel beat of deep, gravelly laughter. It falls out of her mouth.

“Do your worst, monk,” the demon snarls, delightfully cruel in Angela’s features. “Destroy me. I’ll destroy her, too.”

Zenyatta lifts his chin, looking down at the evil spirit staining Angela’s soul. Beside him, Genji bares his fangs. A righteous fury flows through Zenyatta’s blood. This is his dear friend. Her fate is not forsaken to this beast so long as Zenyatta still breathes.

“The outcome is not preordained.” Zenyatta turns his head, meeting the other demon’s gaze. “Genji.”

Zenyatta turns away from the possessed body of Angela and walks back up the steps. Without further explanation, Genji follows in incorporeal form, closing the door once more behind them. Again, Genji gathers himself into a physical presence. 

Great concern works through Zenyatta. Personal chastising rings throughout his mind. This could have all been prevented if he investigated further. He should have made certain that the darkness below the house was of death, and not of a new demon. Another orb in her home could have made a difference.

But those thoughts are useless. He must do better, and find a way to aid Angela now. 

The monk and the demon face each other, marbling the same worry. 

“Can you help her?” Genji asks quietly, needing anything that will guide light back into this dark house.

“Yes,” Zenyatta says, “I believe so.” 

Zenyatta breathes in deeply. He closes his eyes, calming the storm that wishes to howl and flash within him. The seconds trickle by. Genji’s patience wears thin, but he forces himself to be still.

“Tell me everything that leads up to Angela’s possession,” Zenyatta orders.

The demon’s tongue is quick. The truth is all too harsh, for Genji played a hand in Angela’s downfall as well. The serial killer that broke into Angela’s house early this summer wasn’t vanquished as they all hoped. Instead, the killer’s vengeful, dark spirit lingered, and spun into an entity of black smoke and claws.

After the initial attack, Angela, in a fashion that doesn’t surprise Zenyatta, refused to leave the house or Genji. They both agreed to deal with the demon and his frightening torture as it came. The orb—thank the iris she kept the orb—was her only protection.

And foolishly, she stepped out of its sphere of safety to embrace Genji. 

Zenyatta’s expression is grim, but Genji’s is far more regretful. He stops at this point in the tale, needing a moment to contain his grievous mistake before continuing on. 

He does care for her. The demon has found love even in a haunting of rage and fear, but Zenyatta sets aside his observations for Angela’s sake. 

One moment. One moment was all it took for Reaper to claim Angela’s body, and attempt to flee. Genji immediately stopped him from escaping the house, containing the possession within these walls. The alternative is unthinkable. Zenyatta can’t dwell on the thought of a serial killer loose in a kind doctor’s body within the city. 

“I tried to get him out,” the harsher cords of Genji’s voice strike himself. “I almost did but he started hurting her. Blood ran out of her nose and mouth… I had to stop.”

Genji tilts his horns in the curtain drawn home. The pressing lack of light surrounds the monk and demon. Genji holds his hand out. The dark fingers curl in failure. 

Ah. He blames himself. 

“He will kill her if we do anything to get rid of him.” The demon’s hand covers a part of his face. Weary. Frighten. “I can’t let that happen. I can’t watch her die.”

Through the hand that hides part of his face, and gives to the jutting aspects of his horns, Genji is every negative emotion that comes to life. He looks down. His angled gaze cuts through floors to the darkness tied up in the basement, possessing the person he loves. The strangely dim but warm essence surrounding the demon is almost tangible love and heartbreak. 

“For over a century,” the demon’s voice lowers, almost breaking, “I’ve been just a ghost that goes bump in the night. When Angela first walked through the door I was ready—I did try to scare her away. But she came back, and stayed.”

Genji closes his eyes. An unnatural sigh leaves his lips.

“She is so good and kind. She doesn’t deserve any of the terror I’ve brought with my existence but she still takes it on as if it isn’t a curse. She holds me without condition. She loves what I am.” Genji gestures to himself. Zenyatta sees red horns and darkness, and honest feelings. “I can’t lose her. Her life is too precious. I can’t exist knowing that I failed to keep her safe. I can’t go back to being just a ghost after her love…”

Genji trails off, breathless.

  
“She makes me feel human. If I lose that now—if I lose her… I can’t… I won’t exist anymore.”

One can’t lie of love, even a demon, not in that genuine degree. Genji hunches his spiky shoulder. On the verge of falling apart, Zenyatta sees him clearly. His voice does not give itself up carelessly. At the bottom of the pit of despair, the demon reaches out. His hand quietly asks for help. 

“Genji,” Zenyatta speaks gently. “I will not allow that to happen either. Angela is strong. When the time comes, she will endure Reaper’s attempt.”

But Zenyatta isn’t certain of Reaper’s capabilities. If the demon can kill her from the inside out, he won’t hesitate to. That passes a dark cloud over his expression. Genji isn’t a fool, either. This is Angela’s life. One wrong move will cut her heart, and all that will remain is Reaper with his victim finally dead. 

“I have not performed an exorcism before,” Zenyatta starts. 

Genji looks ready to lie down and die. Again. 

“However, the process has never before been performed with the aid of a demon.”

Now Genji’s brow furrows. 

“I believe with both of us working together, we can remove Reaper without him harming Angela.”

Zenyatta has come to learn that not everything is as it appears to be. From Angela to Genji himself. From what he’s told Zenyatta, Genji has the capability to free Angela from Reaper’s possession. If they both do this right, together, Reaper won’t be able to lift a claw against her. 

Hope dawns like a tentative new day across Genji. He stills, pushing his shoulders back. The blood red spikes set into determination. 

“What do we need to do?” Genji asks. 

“I need time to prepare,” Zenyatta says. “Will you be able to watch over her until tomorrow morning?”

He looks to the door. An anxious energy sets around him. Zenyatta guesses he hasn’t left her side since Reaper first took over Angela’s body. As much as it sits uncomfortably in Zenyatta, Genji will insure Angela’s safety. 

“Yes,” he says. “Hurry.”

*

Genji can do nothing but wait. Waiting twists his limbs, poisons his center and sets fire to any hope within him. He crouches close beside the mattress, watching only Reaper tug the strings on Angela’s limbs, attempting to find any weak points in the ties. Her body should be comfortable. As much as it stirs Genji’s wrath to cater to this demon’s every need, it’s still the person he’s held at night for these many weeks. The best he can do is have as little damage for her to come back to as possible. 

The basement has always frightened the people who tried to live in his home before. The humans grew weary of the old smell and shadowy, looming walls. Every aspect of the crushing, dark cellar makes it the perfect dwelling for a demon of Reaper’s stature. 

At first, Genji tried to contain him in the bedroom, but he bolted on Angela’s legs to the top of the stairs. The attempt to fling himself down it failed due to Genji’s swiftness. Genji snatched him up and promptly carried her body to the basement where he gathered the rest of the comforts he could. It’s cold, but the one blanket is warm enough to keep her muscles from shivering. The pillows are a safety net, least he attempts to bang Angela’s skull against the concrete walls. 

Reaper jackknifes between tactics. One second he’s spouting off about taking Angela’s body for his own and continuing where left off on his killing spree, the next, he’s claiming she’s already dead. There is no solid dictation giving away if the demon wants a body to continue a mock life, or revenge. 

Genji can’t gamble on either. Insanity has no solid bets. 

She has to be terrified. What state Angela exists in under Reaper’s thumb is a cruel instrument that cuts Genji open, again and again. He can’t dwell on it. He has to look to the morning sunlight for Zenyatta to reappear and make this nightmare end.

The urge to brush a bang out of her eyes sends an ache throughout Genji. He curls his fingers into a fist and stays still. 

On into the late evening, Reaper grows quiet. Finally. The twisting sound of Angela’s voice layered with Reaper’s grates against Genji’s entire being. 

Genji holds out a small plastic cup of water he retrieved from the kitchen. Silently, he waits for Reaper to take it with Angela’s steady hands.

Staring at the offering, the dark ring consuming her natural blues unsettles any pureness. Instead of addressing her thirst, Reaper lifts her chin. A sick glint of darkness reflects in her eyes. 

“Have you tried it?”

Genji blinks. He glances at the cup of water, attempting to decipher what Reaper’s point of conversation is. Of course, he drank water in his mortal life, but he has no reason to drink it now. They both know they have no means of consuming food or drink in their current state of being. 

Reaper rolls her eyes. 

“Possession,” he states.

The plastic cup squishes slightly under Genji’s dark fingers.

“You have,” he says with certainty, “because I’m doing it now, and we’re kindred spirits.” 

The demon tugs Angela’s lips into a grinning sneer. Clenching his jaw, Genji bites back a growl building in his throat. 

“Stop talking and drink the water,” he growls. 

“You were too weak to keep whatever body you possessed,” Reaper continues in Angela’s cursed tones. “For a demon, you’re pathetic.”

He’s right and having the words come from Angela’s lips sharpen the words, but Genji’s face remains as stone. 

It was only one night. Genji was so desperate. He needed to escape the changing, daunting walls. Hanzo had left years ago. A lone man attempted to claim his house. Genji did try… He could still feel the soul’s rightful place within. The weight of his darkness infecting a bright energy. He couldn’t take what was already taken from him. It didn’t change what was already done.

He let go of the man and resigned himself to the inside of the house for as long as time flows. 

Shoving the cup into her bound wrists, Genji retreats with a snarl. The air physically churns with rage around him. Reaper smiles with her lips before drinking. Her throat bobs with a terrible need. At the very least, he and Angela are at least confined. Genji hasn’t lost her yet. 

The tensions throughout him slowly loosen. As he reaches for the cup, Reaper throws it as well he can with her bound wrists across the room and awaits Genji’s reaction. 

“Better go get that,” he taunts. 

Genji falls back on his haunches but stays still. His glare could cut through the darkness suffocating the soul in Angela’s heart. 

A distant sound of a ringing phone takes over the silence. Reaper curiosity squints her eyes, glancing up to the floor of the house. It falls into background noise. For several hours it’s been going off. Genji leaves Angela’s phone alone as eventually, the battery will die. 

The noise stops, for now. Dust settles around Genji’s feet. He remains as a sentinel.

“All the time in the world and you’re running out of it,” Reaper says. He adjusts her crossed legs in the nest of pillows. Her shoulders lower, at ease. “Hers was always on the clock. The monk can’t do anything.”

_Your nightmare lasts only until morning,_ Genji thinks to himself. 

Until morning. A precious mantra that keeps Genji sane. He cools his tongue. Reaper is growing desperate and restless, and Genji refuses to sooth either of those. 

“Even if he tries,” Reaper continues, “there’s no point in saving someone who’s already dead.”

The fists at Genji’s sides clench uncontrollably. No. No. Until morning. He wants to rile up Genji. The sight of Genji’s distress tastes like honey. 

He’ll burn. If Genji has to drag Reaper to hell himself, he’ll burn. 

The downward tilt of Angela’s head casts it into shadow. Marks of evil grow along with the bones of her face. Reaper pierces Genji with eyes of possessed blue.

“Then there will be three demons in this house. Well, two demons and a ghost, but it won’t take long to change her.”

A snap akin to a frail rib bone underfoot echoes. Reaper blinks Angela’s eyes, finding the other demon inches from her face. For a moment, the white of her eyes is startled. Genji’s fist punches a hole into the concrete at the side of her. Electricity cackles with rage around the horned entity. Quickly, a mocking sneer overcomes her mouth, haunting the beautiful soul he so desperately needs to return. 

Genji only finds Reaper within. 

Rage suffocates under a layer of grief. Pulling away, Genji slips back off the mattress. Reaper’s gaze follows him with satisfied delight. His physical form barely holds back the flood of hatred and fury overwhelming him.

What if he never sees her soul again?

Genji stands over the mattress. Angela’s body even sits in an unfamiliar position. Her mouth opens, slowly drawing out a demonic laugh that only Reaper can create. 

Until morning.

Hold on until morning. 

Angela is strong. She will endure. 

_Angela._

Oh, but Genji isn’t. He’s given in to every negative emotion within himself. He’s fed every harsh, cruel idea. His horns grow out in rage. His dark essence consumed every ounce of revenge he wanted. Eyes there weren’t always red were dyed in his fear of being alone, of forever remaining trapped in an inhuman experience. 

Losing her, or far worse, being unable to save her from his own damnation leaves emptiness within Genji that has only grown since his brother took his life. His love, his meek, lowly, desperate love for her is the only dam against the flood of despair unleashed by the other demon.

Losing her will be the only hell Genji knows. 

*

Reaper guesses by the weary sensation coursing through his new body that night covers the world in black. Genji stands, looming over him like a colossus. His jaw is locked. Motionlessness doesn’t work in the same sense for the human body. Something is always flowing. Blood. Air. He’s forgotten how much energy it takes to stay awake. 

It’s sweet to take the dreams that once belonged to the woman who escaped his dagger. 

The monk has yet to reappear. Zenyatta’s surely gone off to prepare a way to get rid of Reaper, but he will stop at the sight of blood leaking from her face orifices. Genji did. 

So, slowly, Reaper makes himself comfortable on the bed and pillows meant only for her. His head lies down, draping fluffy blonde hair over a pillow. Not his hair, but it’s attached to the body. The body is all he needs to continue on. The binds of soft, secure strips of sheets serve well. 

Even sweeter, Reaper gets to sleep. Unlike before he took her body, he only claimed an endless, dusk horizon. No resting. No stopping. Eventually, a hunger pieced back his spiritual being, for blood lust is never stated. His tongue is always dry. 

Not anymore. Not with this body. Whatever the monk discussed with Genji upstairs is hardly of concern. Zenyatta won’t waste this woman’s life. Neither will Genji. Anything they try will be answered with the slow tearing of her heart. 

Like the dead dove. 

Reaper dreams easily.

He returns inwards. Rest is essential with his new body, but it’s a passive process. Reaper prowls into the room filled with black smoke swirling over the chained creature lying on the floor. She shivers ceaselessly. 

Her soul, as bright as it burns, can’t break his chains. 

Pleased, Reaper turns away to actually participate in resting (he hasn’t rested for weeks, not since Genji killed him) but a quiet rustle of chains brings him to a dead stop. 

He casts his gaze onto the bound soul. Over her mouth, the chains rustle fervently. Somehow, her jaw moves. Tilting his head to the side while observing the strange sight, Reaper muses.

Not as weak as he thought, but not strong enough, either. 

This body is already claimed. He will admit that indulging in the pleas of his victims to spare their lives made the attacks interesting. Surely, she must react as passionately as Genji. In that, he can find new ammunition to use against the demon. 

Reaper stands over the chained soul. Bending down, his claws loosen the only chain binding her tongue. 

The soul gasps out. She twists but does little more than wither like a worm. As weighted down in a black lake with concrete boots, Angela stays still. Her eyesight is still locked away. On a whim, Reaper allows her to hear whatever he may respond with. 

“Reaper?” she tentatively squeaks out. A mouse caught in a trap and watching a cat prowl towards it. He lives for it. 

“What do you want to say?” he asks. 

A pause echoes. A quiet rattle of her attempt to squirm again fails, and she returns to lying down on the cold ground. 

“You don’t have to do this,” she says quietly.

Staring bluntly, despite the black, smoky chains wrapped around her eyes, Reaper marvels at the audacity of one soul.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he growls.

Where are the statements that he won’t win? Where are the pleas begging for him to spare her life? Where are the screams of horror? The cries of despair? He senses her fear and anguish as one feels a hot noonday sun but she still keeps her voice even under all of his crushing control.

“I’m not,” Angela presses weakly. Her soul flickers like a dying star. “I’ve been touching your spirit, too. You’re lost. Whatever you’re looking for can’t be found like this. Continuing as you did in life will seal you into the demonic form you take now. You can stop yourself, Reaper.”

She assumes too much with too little knowledge. As if he doesn’t have more power than ever. As if she knows what he seeks. A spark of anger closes his claws into fists but he doesn’t strike out in punishment. The last thing he needs is to draw Genji’s attention with her spiritual cry. 

“You either think this is how you can save yourself, or you honestly believe that. I don’t know which is worse,” Reaper says. 

Her lips press into a thin line. 

“Why?”

Why? Such an interesting question. His victims ask him the same, but he’s never had the motive to divulge such reasoning, until now.

She needs to understand that he does need to do this. 

“I gave everything and didn’t even receive a glance,” he lowers his voice. “I was left to suffer. If the world didn’t want a killer, a demon, it should have done a better job at not creating me.”

It’s strange to speak, but it’s freeing. It brings to mind of shouting into a cave, hearing the echoes while knowing that it remains in darkness forever. Angela is the perfect one to hear so. His piece is given. Understanding is not what he seeks, but perhaps it will show Angela how doomed she truly is. 

He came into this house to kill her. He will not leave until her blood spills across his claws. 

She stirs underneath the weight of his chains. Reaper’s almost impressed. Almost. 

“You are feeding a cycle that harmed you in the first place. Violence breeds more violence. Death breeds more death,” she breathes out. 

What she needs him to understand is desperately pressed into Reaper’s hands, to look at and realize, but he tosses it aside. Just because they explain themselves, doesn’t mean he empathizes. 

“So it does.”

Genji continued it. He will end it. 

“You can let go,” Angela persists. “You can become better, like Genji.”

The need to snort nearly overwhelms Reaper, but he waves a clawed hand through the air instead. 

“Your little ghost lover isn’t better than me. Whatever happens, he’ll always be here in this house, trapped and damned, because we’re both filled with anger.”

Her lips part, stunned. The mere implication of them being kindred spirits horrifies more than any harm he’s ever done, but Angela remains silent. A second expands into several until Reaper nods to himself. That is all he cares to entertain. A swift hand tightens the chains, sealing her lips with a quiet muffled protest before she falls silent.

She doesn’t know what awaits them in the morning. The rest is his to claim, and she is only along for the ride. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another guest comes into the house as Genji and Zenyatta prepare for the exorcism. All the while, Reaper’s determined to escape, or kill Angela, or both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To summarize, I could insert the ‘guy walking into a room with pizza and finding everything chaotic’ gif here. A lot happens, and most of it is emotionally painful. Brace yourselves.

At the crack of dawn, Angela’s phone rings distantly. The numerous times the obnoxious sound has sprung up kindles Genji’s restlessness, but he’s had no sense to keep count. People must be wondering where she is. If Genji were alone in keeping the possession of his love restraint, he would have failed in a matter of days.

Terrible what-ifs die as the monk returns. Genji looks to the dark gaze staining Angela’s eyes. Reaper glares back, unaware of what’s coming.

“People will come looking for her,” he says, twisting her voice. “You can’t hide me forever.”

“I don’t have to.”

Until morning.

Now the sun rises.

And the nightmare will end.

He’ll see her soul again.

As Genji gives up his physical form, Reaper furrows Angela’s brow, tumbling over his unphased words. Suspicion glints in her eyes but it doesn’t matter.

Genji moves as if a whisper to the front door. He opens it without physical contact before Zenyatta can lift his hand. The monk walks inside, dragging along a repulsive, holy radiance that acts as a match to ignite Genji with hope.

It will be like removing a tumor. Zenyatta has silver instruments. Genji holds up steady hands.

“How is she?” he asks.

“Her body is safe. Reaper slept through the night,” Genji growls out the last part.

Zenyatta nods as his brow hardens.

He wears his typical yellow robe. Around his shoulders drapes a heavy necklace of golden orbs. The very sight creates a hiss in Genji’s throat, but he circles Zenyatta as he steps into the living room. Zenyatta lifts the heavy necklace from his person. A ritual unfolds before the demon. With his free hand, Zenyatta takes out a red, rectangular piece of silky cloth from the folds of his robe. Gently, he lays it on the coffee table which he then rests the necklace upon. Genji forces patience into his energy as the monk calmly draws out a thick braid of golden rope. A thick scent wafts off of it as the faraway smell of balsam intoxicates the air. It would force Genji away if it was shoved in his direction.

“Where is the orb I gave to Angela?” Zenyatta asks calmly. His fingertips press together, forming an upside-down steeple.

“Upstairs, on the bedroom nightstand,” Genji answers. It’s where she last set it down, before…

“I need it for the exorcism,” Zenyatta continues, “Once I retrieve it, we will go over our parts within the process.”

Nodding, Genji urges Zenyatta to hurry. He takes to the stairs with light feet. Genji paces around the coffee table in his manifestation. His hands curl and loosen, swaying between ripping Reaper out of Angela, and being able to finally hold her face without seeing darkness.

The dark presence within the basement shifts. The movement is so minor Genji pictures Reaper moving her body into a more comfortable position on the pillows.

The inky smoke swallowing up Angela’s soul keeps moving, however. Farther than Genji has witnessed before. An impression of Reaper’s claws rakes through the back of his mind.

Genji darts into the basement in a rush of autumn wind. In the corner of his captivity, Reaper stands Angela’s body up. A hiss erupts from Genji’s bodiless person. The lengthy strip of cloth tethering her wrists to the support beam has been wrapped around Angela’s neck. Reaper flashes her blue irises. Genji physically appears as the killer looks him dead in the eyes.

Reaper pulls her wrists down, taking up the slack, and tightening the cloth around her throat.

“NO!”

Bursting forward in a pure rage that makes the very air thick, Genji rips the tether from the support beam. Angela’s body stumbles from the sudden lack of resistance. Falling down, Reaper makes a choking noise on top of the mattress. The binds on her upper arms remain. Genji kneels furiously over the body of his love as he takes her shoulders, easing her upright. The gentle motion betrays how greatly he fumes.

“You sick coward—”

Reaper thrusts her hand against Genji’s chest, throwing him back with the darkness of Reaper’s being leaping out of her flesh. His physical body breaks as Genji sails through the basement concrete wall, landing in the underbelly of the house. Dazed, he scrambles in the support beams to pull himself together.

Angela!

Genji frantically locates Reaper. He races up the steps into the living room. A quiet hiss in Angela’s tones echoes at the sight of the golden orbs and other holy artifacts lying out in the open. Passing through the floor, Genji manifests in the living room and swipes at her arm. Reaper barely jackknifes away from his grazing grasp.

“Zenyatta!” he cries out.

In a panic, Genji becomes energy once more. Through a kitchen entry, he chases Reaper’s berserk run in Angela’s body. Her hair swings wildly through the air as he lunges over a counter. Her bound upper arms are stuck to her person, but Reaper reaches out her hand.

Her fingers wrap around one handle sticking out of the knife block.

Genji drives on absolutely fear as he nearly wraps an arm around her waist. Too late. Reaper spins out of his hold. Pressing her lower back into the edge of a counter, he holds the tip of a butcher knife to the corner of Angela’s jaw. Her pale throat gleams up at Genji as he freezes.

“Don’t,” Genji warns in a voice that threatens thunder.

If his heart was still beating, it would have seized up. One motion of her wrist is all it will take. One slash, guided by Reaper’s sick want of revenge. All of his dark abilities and Genji can only stare. His promise cracks like glass. A dark sunset of a second death creeps onto him.

“Because you know I will,” Reaper uses her voice, twisting it to gravely victory. “You know I’ll paint this entire floor red.”

“Genji?” Zenyatta’s voice falls down the stairs. A spark of escaping hope stings Genji’s insides.

As the monk makes his way to the base floor, he stops at the sight of Angela’s hand clutching a knife close to her neck. Her blue eyes brim with lethal intentions. Zenyatta’s eyes widen. Slowly, he composes himself. Carefully, he lifts his palms up.

“There’s no need for this, Reaper,” Zenyatta speaks calmly.

“If you take a step closer, you’ll add another person to my body count total,” Reaper snarls.

Genji gauges how quick he could separate the knife from her hand. Is he fast enough? How much does Reaper anticipate Genji to act?

No, Genji can’t. Reaper will kill her. A growl of frustration rips out from his teeth. A grinning sneer corrupts Angela’s lips within the echo.

Slowly, Angela’s legs stride out of the kitchen. Reaper angles himself to face both of them. Passing by Genji, Reaper meets his glued gaze with a tighter grip on the weapon. There’s no need to press the very sharp tip into her skin, drawing a bead of blood, but Reaper does it to watch how tightly Genji clenches his jaw.

Maneuvering on light feet, Reaper makes his way between the demon and the monk. He sweeps his gaze back and forth. Zenyatta remains as trained upon Angela’s darken face as much as Genji. In backward steps, Reaper comes to the front door.

“Reaper—” Zenyatta tries.

“Vengeance shall be mine,” Reaper lowers her voice. The demonic cords lacing through her sweetness leaves Genji paralyzed.

“Stop,” Genji shouts.

Her free hand reaches for the door handle. Taking it, Reaper twists it until he can pry it open behind her back. The front porch despairingly appears.

But on the steps, an old man stands.

Genji and Zenyatta still. Angela’s brow immediately crinkles as Reaper glances around the room.

Only a second too late does Reaper start to turn, for Jack Morrison swoops down. With precise, trained motions, he grabs and twists her wrist into a painful position. Nothing pops or snaps. The knife clatters onto the floor. An unholy screech unleashes from her throat as Jack Morrison pins her hands down. Reaper struggles against the new restraint but quickly finds Jack’s grip is iron.

She’s still here. Genji finally breathes.

Jack opens his mouth, no doubt about to demand why a person he cares about was about to harm herself but stops at the sight within the house.

His wide-eyed gaze lands on Zenyatta then jumps to Genji’s horns and red markings. There’s no thought within the demon to hide himself away, for all he sees is Angela’s body in the threshold of the house. Promptly, Jack Morrison becomes as pale as a sheet of paper, bewildered, and deathly concerned.

“Someone explain what is going on, right now.”

*

One pillow sticks out awkwardly underneath her shoulder blade. Gently, Genji tugs it out and fixes it along her arm instead. Her body stretches out on the mattress. The coolness of the basement contains Reaper once more. The mattress, which Genji dragged out of the corner and set in the middle of the cellar, keeps the cold floor from chilling her muscles.

All the while, Reaper glares up at him. The twisted scowl on Angela’s face is as misplaced as orange leaves falling in the middle of summer.

There’s nothing more for Genji’s restless hands to attend to. Every glance at Angela’s face when Reaper blinks spurs a false hope within Genji. He years so desperately for her true blue color to appear. He needs to see her smile in a tired but content impulse. He sets himself up for disappointment every time.

The one thin sheet he drapes over her lower half isn’t much. Her pajamas are getting wrinkled and messy. A mound of pillows became a makeshift barricade around her entire body as Genji attempted to make her comfortable.

None of this comfort is for Reaper. The strips of sheets now binding her wrists is for Reaper. The approaching exorcism is for Reaper.

Genji stares at the inky smoke eating up the sunny orb in Angela’s chest. Doom becomes heavy in his spirit. The impulse to try once more to rip him out of her burns his physical manifestation. Underneath the corner of her jaw, a small scab already forms. He can’t dwell on what more the knife in her own hand could have cut, least Genji loses what little control he reins in.

In the basement, very few noises can be heard from upstairs. Very few save for Angela’s old friend refusing to accept the facts.

Jack Morrison is the least of his, or Zenyatta’s concerns, but the monk insists on explaining everything to the man rather than kicking him out and continuing on as they should. In the living room, Zenyatta takes his sweet time laying out the situation to a very worried Jack. The old man at least acknowledges that Angela would never try to harm herself. He takes the idea of her being possessed by a demon a little easier.

“What cult did this?” Jack’s demand punches through the walls and into Genji’s annoyance.

“Again, Jack, a demonic cult is not responsible for this,” Zenyatta ever so patiently repeats.

“Angela wouldn’t stay in a house with demons! She’s an intelligent woman, she wouldn’t get mixed up with strange things like this,” Jack insists. Underneath his loud bewilderment, concern as thick as syrup drips through his tones. His worry mingles with Genji’s and Zenyatta’s genuinely. 

“Jack, I will go into greater detail about how this all occurred, but at this moment, time is of the essence. Genji and I can—”

“That other demon?” Jack balks.

“Yes,” Zenyatta remains steady, “He and I can use your assistance in this exorcism.”

Genji waits for another useless interjection, and waits, and waits. He eventually spares one glance upwards, spying the soul that suddenly wavers. Perhaps the word of what they are about to perform is terrifying on its own.

Firmly, Jack nods. How Zenyatta sees any way of Jack being useful is beyond Genji and doesn’t matter. Once Zenyatta contains Jack’s bewilderment, they’ll finally rip Reaper away from Angela’s soul.

Just a few more moments. She’s strong. She’s still holding on. Genji senses her soul like understanding the sun still shines even behind rain clouds. She’ll be free again.

Genji crouches at the corner of the mattress, beside her golden hair sprawling out on the sheets. There are so many nights he’s touched the gentle color. Her scent of honeysuckle is contaminated, mixed with rusty iron and a dark musty scent. The dark bruises underneath her eyes deepen every hour Reaper stains her insides.

Reaper growls, closing her eyes as he strains against his binds again.

As Genji stares at her eyelashes, nearly brushing the top of her cheeks from their sheer length, desperation floods him. His arms almost reach out and pull her against his chest. Her heartbeat is the only lullaby that gives him peace. If he could hold that, listen to her breathing without being accelerated by Reaper’s control, Genji could exist painlessly.

Soon. As the sun climbs higher in the sky, so will her light be brought back. Genji refuses any alternative. The only comfort he will take is ripping Reaper out of Angela’s body.

Yet, he must pretend for a moment, for his own sanity, that the strand of hair that’s falling into her face is only Angela’s. Genji imagines softly, treating the lock like a wilted flower bound to crumble at the slightest aggression, brushing it off of her cheek. The irritable need to lean down and press a kiss to her temple almost overtakes him.

“Angela,” he whispers. His cool breath falls against the shell of her ear. He almost stops, brow crumpling, but if this is any sliver of comfort, he will give it to her. “Hold on. It will be over soon.”

The corner of her mouth jerks and her eyes flash open. Dark as nightmares. Reaper glares from the corner of her vision. Genji withdraws, baring his teeth silently.

“She can’t hear you,” her voice corrupted with deep, demonic tones enforces Reaper’s cruelty.

Genji knows. He still had to try.

The intrusive image of Reaper forcing Angela’s hand to hold a knife to her throat splatters red into his vision. Slowly standing, Genji walks around the mattress to better keep Reaper in his sights.

“Don’t move,” Genji warns. His fingers clench at his sides. Killing Reaper would be a sweet release on his mind, but time is on his side. Reaper already knows what’s coming.

Reaper looks around. In his lying position, he sweeps her eyes over the pillows and one blanket providing warmth. The binds around her arms, restraining him, are the same. The strip of torn sheets around her wrists are thicker now. He holds up her hands, surveying the work but doesn’t make an attempt to rise. The glint in her eyes calculates every variable, but every answer to escaping is negative.

Through the open basement door, the conversation between the mortals continue. In the dim light of the basement, Genji and Reaper staredown each other. Genji looms, casting a shadow from the bare lightbulb. His stance emphasizes his horns and red markings.

Reaper must taste his anticipation. For the first time since he possessed Angela, a flicker of tensions wrings through his movements. It’s only a second, but Genji drinks it in.

Turning her cheek on the mattress, Reaper glances up the stairs. Swiftly, he throws her corrupted stare back onto Genji. He doesn’t blink. A scowl spreads across Angela’s mouth.

“I’ll kill her,” he says. The words fall from her lips.

This game has already been played. Genji’s finished giving Reaper what he wants.

He narrows her brow into a harsh, silent fury. The air of confidence around Genji’s spiked shoulders can’t be chilled by the icicles Reaper sharpens. Again, an anxious shift on the mattress turns Angela’s head. Whatever he’s hoping to find, Reaper only comes upon disappointment.

The footsteps upstairs ring the first bell foretelling the closing of Reaper’s nightmare.

Genji’s nature isn’t a source of pride, but for this, he takes joy in giving into it.

“Your time is up.”

Reaper bares her teeth but does nothing more than watch Zenyatta and Jack walk down the basement steps with blackness around her eyes.

A blatant look of suspicion falls onto Genji’s dark form. He turns and holds the old man’s gaze. The stark red color of his irises startles Jack, but he hardens himself to the task at hand. The woman tied up on the mattress troubles him. Concern and doubts wrinkled Jack’s brow as he follows Zenyatta.

“I’ll kill her, Jack,” Reaper snarls out with Angela’s voice.

Jack clenches his jaw but stays silent. He’s already been warned of this.

Zenyatta approaches the mattress. He is the light breaking through a foggy, cold morning. The stinging, blinding energy of the orbs around the monk’s neck sends Genji away. Carefully, he kneels, balancing on the edge of the mattress. Above her blonde hair, Genji hovers. Reaper glares directly up at him, then hisses.

Across from Genji, Zenyatta places an orb on one corner of the mattress. In his calm grip, he frees another orb from the necklace on his shoulders. Reaper furiously tries to kick away. If it didn’t threaten to burn him as well, Genji would have relished his feeble attempt. Steeling himself, Jack swiftly drops to the right of the mattress. He grabs both her arms, pinning them down at her sides. One by one, golden orbs is placed along Angela’s legs by Zenyatta.

“I’LL KILL HER! I’LL KILL HER!” Reaper screeches like a banshee.

Genji looms above Reaper. Every second trickles down to his last midnight.

In the shadows Reaper cuts into Angela’s expression, it’s too easy to see only him. Even Jack sets aside his friendly concern to keep her body in place with the strength of iron shackles.

Genji looks to Zenyatta. In his hands, he lays down a thick braid of golden rope. Balsam scents create a threshold between him and the demon possessing Angela. A half-circle of eight orbs surrounds the lower end of the mattress. Any closer and Genji would have to retreat, but this balances both of their parts.

Reaper fumes. Not even her eyes can hide his wrath.

“Reaper,” Zenyatta speaks calmly, “If you leave Angela now, you will not have to face what we are about to perform.”

Her teeth gnash, snapping like a feral animal. As much as he kicks and struggles, Jack doesn’t give an inch. He starts to lift her head and bang it back against the mattress. It does little, but Genji still places his hands on either side of her skull and forces him back down. His own anger is pouring into what comes next.

He stills. Reaper heaves her body with frantic breaths. Her limbs lay still. Her wide eyes stare forward before he lowers her eyelids.

The inky smoke within her moves. Genji snarls. A trickle of blood falls from one nostril. The beginning of scarlet bubbles up at one corner of her mouth.

“Now! Do it now!” he shouts at Zenyatta.

“What’s happening?” Jack yells. His hold upon her doesn’t waver for a moment. The blood starting to leak from her face orifices strikes panic into the old man’s face. 

The monk bows his head, bringing his fold hands over his heart. Helplessly watching, Genji flickers between the flurry Reaper has become within Angela, and the unspoken prayer rising within Zenyatta. Upon the dark skin of the monk’s forehead, spiritual energy manifests as dots lining in a three by three square. They begin glowing a holy blue.

Angela.

In a sight invisible to mortal eyes, a second pair of radiate, golden arms appears from Zenyatta’s back. The orbs take on light. Genji flinches as the spiritual light swells. The stillness Reaper once force melts in the holy brilliance. Violent convulsions take over Angela’s body. Underneath Jack’s arms, Reaper’s contained, even as the old man grows wild with fear.

More pairs of glowing arms from Zenyatta’s backside continue to open spiritual hands. Even looking begins to burn Genji. He clamps his teeth together. Slowly, the arms reach out, longer than any physical restriction would allow, and plunge into Angela’s body. Their blistering light touches Genji’s form. A howl of agony almost leaps out of Genji as every natural impulse to flee the holy light flares within him, but he bites it back.

In a brief second of pain, Genji knows this power is what will give demons a true demise. A certain, empty death. It’s what removes any idea of ‘after’. It casts being like himself into nonexistence, forever destroyed.

The many golden hands take hold of the inky smoke inside of Angela. Her back arches, lifting off of the mattress as the spiritual battle physically assaults her insides. A demonic scream cuts through the air. It emits from Angela’s wide open mouth but contains none of her vocal cords.

The inky smoke starts tearing away from Angela’s soul in the sense hot tar clings to any surface. The black tendrils strain, desperately grabbing at her heart. Blood runs out of Angela’s nose. It’s too much. Genji almost cries out ‘stop!’ Reaper’s only letting go after he’s claimed his last victim.

Genji won’t let him.

Through the burning holiness, despite it, Genji’s dark hand reaches into the light. The scorching brings the fear that he’s lost his hand but Zenyatta withdraws only one of his holy fingers. There, Genji slips inside Angela’s heart. It’s so beautiful.

On a mark known to only them, Zenyatta’s golden hands release Reaper’s essence.

The blackness that is Reaper whiplashes back, and directly into Genji’s grasp. In the momentum, and in Reaper’s surprise, Genji digs his fingers into the demon. The edge of his pinky brushes Angela’s soul. The light sparks combustion that Genji rides to rip the demon out of his love. He growls with effort. Out of her heart, her ribcage, and into the cold basement, Reaper is dragged by the edges of his being. Genji’s dark hand clamps down on him, fiercely promising destruction.

The wicked spirit struggles. Genji flings his energy into the farthest corner, scattering Reaper into a mindless entity. Oh, he wants to continue after him. He wants to strike him down into hell. The power of the demon hovering over Angela climbs into heights the other, bone faced spirit can’t grasp.

But Genji snaps his head to Angela. She falls back against the mattress. A soft exhale leaves her slightly bloody mouth.

It’s hers.

A sigh of pure relief swirls in Genji’s center. Her soul casts sunny light from within her, safe and sound. The sun returns after the hurricane.

“Jack,” Zenyatta prompts as he lowers his hands. As he does so, the dots of spiritual blue on his forehead disappear. The holy arms that made this possible slip away like a bad dream after a pleasant morning.

To the old man’s credit, he steadily sweeps Angela into his arms and hurries her up the stairs. Caught in the frantic energy, Genji gives chase. Her spirit glimmers with strength. Only from the corner of his senses does Genji know Zenyatta takes the thick braid of golden rope. Jack carries Angela into the private office room. For what reason, Genji doesn’t care to ask. As Jack steps through the doorway, Genji keeps on his heels.

A holy sphere of energy slams against Genji’s chest. Flung back violently, the force nearly jars Genji’s physical presence away. He staggers. A snarl escapes his mouth. Recovering, he jumps back to the door of the private office once more.

Another thick braid of golden rope lines the threshold, emitting balsam. A talisman to keep evil spirits out, or in, of rooms.

He stares down at it before his clawed feet. Fury licks the blood-red fire in his eyes. From the view the narrow entryway gives, Genji finds the room has been readied for this. Angela’s desk has been shoved aside and against one wall. A sleeping pad is set up in the very center of the room. On this, a thin white sheet lays with a thin pillow. There, Jack gently lowers Angela’s unconscious person, minding her head like a father with his newborn.

Her head shifts as she settles. Her lips part, the blood from her mouth already drying out. Even though she sleeps, her brow pinches into terrified crinkles. White gold hair falls around her cheeks. She’s free, and out of his reach.

A growl builds up in his chest. Genji swipes at the barrier, burning his fingers on the holy trinket safeguarding the room. A mad need to simply be at her side throws away any reason within Genji. He has to be at her side. He just got her back.

“Genji,” Zenyatta’s voice cuts through his insensibility.

Genji turns sharply on the monk. He stands in the doorway of the basement, not even ashamed.

After everything, Zenyatta still believes he wants to hurt her? He is not just anger. What hurts more than death is betrayal, and it cuts him like an old wound. Betrayal escapes his furious expression like spilled ink.

“Get that thing out of my way,” Genji growls, bearing down on him.

As unphased as a mountain against a strong wind, Zenyatta steadily meets Genji’s fiery face. Any other man would have dropped of fright. The air trembles with tangible fury. How Zenyatta stays so unfeeling amid Genji’s greatest torment only spurs him to strike.

Calmly, Zenyatta lays the other braided rope used in the exorcism before the basement door. Fist form along Genji’s sides.

So long as that remains there, Reaper can’t venture upwards. Not one stirring from the bone face demon has occurred since Angela was freed. The toil must be unimaginably painful. It’s all that Reaper deserves.

“You must wait until I clean away all traces of darkness from within her,” Zenyatta explains calmly.

Oh, if those orbs around his neck didn’t keep Genji at bay, he would have lunged.

Because he’s still a demon.

And Angela’s still haunted by him.

Genji doesn’t move, seething in one place as Zenyatta walks around him. He steps calmly over the rope and enters the private office. Because he can. Genji’s boiling red eyes follow the monk as he kneels beside Angela. On her other side, Jack asks questions in his frightful ignorance. He needs to know she’s going to be okay. Quietly, Angela lays, truly resting.

Genji’s hand reaches out. It still burns against the safeguard, warding him away from even stroking her warm cheek. Crushed, but barely breathing, Genji collapses in on himself.

All of this was his doing. Zenyatta defends against demons first and utmost. Genji has nothing to blame but his nature.

Her light shines but he shouldn’t be under it. Her beautiful soul takes away his loneliness but she also takes on terrible scars in the effort.

Zenyatta has to keep his word. He has to make sure she’s alright.

Genji growls one last time before forsaking his physical appearance. His energy swarms the entrance of the private room, anxious, angry, and impatient. Waiting, this close to finally being with her, is second to what Reaper’s done.

Genji’s only spared by the knowledge that she’ll open her eyes, and it will be she who looks backs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela wakes up, free of Reaper’s possession. The first thing she does is find Genji, and hold onto him.

A peaceful blanket of night surrounds her. The soft darkness brings back his dark hands stroking her cheeks, holding her face like he’s found the answer to the question he’s always asked himself. She reaches, but can’t find his chest. The place where she would lay her head drifts out of her fingers. His breathing doesn’t dust her eyes like a promise. The familiar shine of red irises eludes her gaze.

_Genji?_

Emerging from chilling, black smoke, Angela opens her eyes.

She breathes in. Her lungs move on her command, in and out, startled, and short.

Her heart beats.

Her fingers, oh, she can feel her fingers. She clenches her hands. They obey, curling until her nails bite into her palm. She’s back in her own body. She never left, but her limbs act as if she’s been gone for years.

She’s aware of the warmth touching her skin, even in the dark. She was shivering for days, but now she breathes out without the air becoming foggy around her lips. Something lingers, bone-deep. Like the smoke that rises off of dry ice. Reaper’s claws trail through her, cutting into her muscles similarly to a bad case of the chills.

Angela blinks. Tears brim her bottom eyelashes, overwhelmed and terrified of where she is now. It’s not a dark room full of black smoke. The chains that wore down her entire being thankfully have disappeared.

There were hands. Hands that guided her back into awareness. There were so many golden palms reaching out. She remembers wishing she could touch one, and wondering if they would keep her safe.

Then two dark hands brushed against her. For the first time since she lost her sense of her own body, Angela burned with hope. Those hands took Reaper away. Not the golden, bright ones, but the dark fingertips. The cool lines of the palms were unmistaken, but they didn’t stay long as they carried the bone faced demon out of her.

Where are they? Where is he? Is Reaper still here?

There was a brief moment of awareness before. She slipped back and forth between the peaceful dark and someone talking. It may have been Zenyatta, for it sounded like holy words cleaning away the last of Reaper’s hold upon her. Someone pressed a glass bottle to her lips, and she drank a thick, oily substance before falling back to rest.

She blinks carefully, afraid of falling back into the pitch-black room with dark smoke. The room is dark with starlight. Outside the window, the one Reaper broke, a half-moon gazes back. Bookshelves and carpet come into view. A thin sleeping pad lines her back. The little support can’t change the fact the floor of the private office room is hardwood. Slowly, Angela turns her head.

Against one wall, in her office chair, Jack slumps. He crosses his arms as his head bows in sleep. Yet, his posture doesn’t mistake that he acts as a guard watching over her.

Jack? Why is he here? An almost sob like breath leaves Angela’s throat. Her good friend impresses upon her soul that it’s really over. He is someone who’s not a part of the madness and acts as a sign of the worst being in the past.

The lingering dread throughout her limbs pushes her to finally crane her head up. She sweeps the room, stopping on Zenyatta’s motionless form. Underneath a window, nearly in the corner, he sits crossed legged. His eyes are closed as his hands rest on top of his thighs. There’s no conceivable way he’s awake, but Angela can’t explain how the monk sleeps sitting up. He doesn’t move in the slightest. Yet, a wave of peace washes over Angela.

He did come and help.

But where is Genji?

The mixed-up space doesn’t provide the red eyes she seeks. Angela circles her head around again. No spirit stirs.

In her search, her eyes lands once more upon Zenyatta, and the large necklace of orbs draped around his shoulders. A cold gush of melting ice floods her very center, freezing her heart.

He wouldn’t have…

He could…

“Genji?” Angela bursts out, but the noise that actually leaves her lips is a ghostly whisper, strained and crackling. Ugh, her throat hurts, as if she spent an entire day screaming.

“Angela!”

Just as quiet, a voice of a midnight river rumbles through her, washing away the sticky strangeness separating her from her own body. She tilts her head. The open door of the office spills into a dim hallway. In the little starlight, the dark form of her love appears.

Her heart warms up as if she’s never known a trace of ice. Tears welling up in her eyes threaten to spill over. Barely containing them, Angela stares through the blurriness and to his handsome face. His expression swirls in a terrible mixture of relief, concern, and sadness. A desperate, desperate want takes over him. He reaches out but his hands don’t cross the doorway.

Why isn’t he already beside her?

“Genji…” she calls but finds herself faltering. A wave of hurt rolls through her limbs as if she’s been dipped into acid. Every bone and muscle mix up underneath her skin. They’ve become something borrowed and not entirely hers. She wants his arms around her, holding her together.

“Everything’s okay now. You’re safe,” he whispers fervently. He’s quiet enough to not wake even Jack.

She might believe that if he were closer.

“Genji, come here,” she whispers through the wetness filling her eyelashes.

“I would. I absolutely would, but I can’t. I’m sorry, Angela. Zenyatta…” He stops himself on the name, squeezing his red eyes closed before breathing in carefully. “Zenyatta wouldn’t let me into the room.”

She finds what he speaks of. A strange, large golden braid of rope lines the threshold. Whatever it is, it’s keeping Genji away from her. Angela knows Zenyatta’s cautious in any regard to Genji, but this sets more liquid into her eyes.

She needs him now.

Slowly, she works herself upright. A soft groan escapes her teeth. The black slush in her body nauseates her insides, but she pulls herself to her feet in a shaking, weak motion.

“You don’t have to get up,” Genji whispers, but he opens his arms as Angela holds his gaze. His red eyes are intent. Painfully, he forces himself to wait as Angela shuffles silently across the floor to the doorway.

Going to him is the only way to have his embrace. Lying down, staying where she was, when her body is hers again, would be madness. She wants to move. She wants to reach out and take him against her and let herself not be afraid again.

Angela steps over the rope, and falls into Genji’s arms, home again. He pulls her against him, finally breathing out. His hands cradle her, holding the back of her head as she whimpers in relief. Wrapping her arms around him, Angela takes the physical reassurance of being able to hold him again.

“Angela,” Genji cries quietly into her hair, relieved beyond measure, “Are you alright? Do you want to rest?”

Her hands clutch his backside. Her cheek presses into his chest with the certainty that no cold claw can find her here. A sob leaves her chest. She didn’t know if she would ever feel him again. In the black smoke underneath chains, she didn’t dare hope least Reaper find it and tear it out of her.

Softly, Genji eases his hands to her face. Pulling away only by an inch, Angela gives in to his palms. A tear makes a tentative path down her cheek. His dark thumb smears it away. Red eyes waver, sharing the tear he cannot shed himself.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, holding her gaze. “I just need to see your eyes, for a moment.”

Angela lets him, drinking in the scarlet that trembles in a fear she’s rarely witnessed. How terrified Genji must be of losing her, of almost actually losing her, to Reaper. Angela shares the same terror. She won’t lose him, either. She has him underneath her hands, resting on his chest like an island in an endless, black sea.

Standing in part of the living room, Angela shivers. There was a blanket on her, a thin sheet, but her pajamas give away Genji’s cool presence. It’s so far removed from Reaper’s frigid terror, like ice cream compared to dry ice.

Her eyes reflexively glance to the basement door. A clawed hand grips her heart. Genji starts at the small gasp she makes. His arms tighten around her.

“It’s alright. He can’t touch you,” Genji speaks firmly.

The braided rope laid before the basement doorway finally whispers of protection, but Angela can’t cling to the thought while looking down the throat of darkness.

“What happened after he…?”

She stops, breathing out slowly and lowering her head against Genji. In the tremble that races through her body, Genji rests his chin on top of her hair and gently rubs her backside.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he suggests softly, sensing her weary breaths.

Angela nods against him, pulling away as he bends slightly to sweep her up.

“Genji,” she touches his arm, and he stops. Something flashes in his face at the gesture of ‘no’. Guilt, or maybe, something he knew might come?

“I want to move, by myself,” she whispers. Walking on her own feet, by her own intent, can hopefully fan away the black smoke lingering inside her.

Immediately, Genji nods and only slips his arm around her lower back. His hand rests above her hip. She presses into his cool side for a moment. A quiet comfort colors his lips as he kisses her temple. Taking the first step, Angela reaches the bottom of the stairs with Genji’s arm still around her. He doesn’t take her weight. The contact is for her emotional stability.

Neither of the lovers notices the monk watching them move through the night. He closes his eyes once more, peaceful, and with a small smile upon his lips.

Her heart picks up slightly as she makes the effort upwards. Her love stays in perfect sync, never hurrying, or holding her back. She parts her lips, breathing in deeply. A sense of control expands within her. She can believe they’re going to bed, ready to spoon each other throughout the night. As if it’s that simple to have a daydream after a nightmare.

But a chill lingers in her blood, and Genji stands like he’s prepared to throw himself between a bullet and herself.

They come to the top of the steps. Angela turns to her bedroom door, but Genji holds her a little tighter.

“The mattress on your bed is gone. We should go to the guest bedroom,” Genji says quietly.

Angela looks at him, furrowing her brow.

“Gone?” Would Reaper have any reason to destroy or move her mattress? “Where is it?”

“I’ll explain when you get comfortable,” he promises.

Slowly, Angela dips her head, wondering just what kind of horror movie plot Genji will be telling her. He’s anxious to get her somewhere soft and where she can sleep. A strange ache jumping through her stomach, her chest, and her throat, invites the idea of a bed to lay down on.

She walks, moving her legs, touching her feet to the floor, and goes into the guest bedroom with Genji. It’s a plain but pretty design. The light brown walls soothe away blackness. The bed is ill-used but set with thick comforters and designer pillows.

Genji pulls back the covers without hesitation. His hand rests on the small of her back, soothing the tremors in her muscles as Angela climbs in like a child after waking up after a nightmare. She reaches for Genji, the stuffed animal that fights off the monsters in the night.

He slides under the covers against her, carefully watching her with every movement, waiting for another wordless no. Why is he so cautious? A terrible thought strikes that it must have been something Reaper did with her body. She had no awareness during that time. There was only the dark room, the black smoke, and the heavy chains.

She’s a confusing embodiment of warm and cold. Her body behaves as if it were standing in winter and just stepped into the sunlight. The comforters are warm. Genji is cool. The lingering weakness inside of her is cold, but her blood and breath are hot.

Will she ever be warm again?

Genji leans back against the pillows, resting on his side as Angela curls into his chest. Her cheek rests over where his heart would be. The comforter and pillows create a tiny oasis to hide away in. Genji’s arms wrap around her, hugging her with no intention of letting go. Her heart settles into this. Dark hands rub up and down her back, the physical weight reassuring the bones of her vertebrate.

Her eyelids flutter against his chest. Genji tucks his chin to look down to her, pressing the length of his body against her own. The coolness of his form combats the thick heat of the blankets. Angela shivers. Genji pulls away slightly until her hands touch his chest.

“Angela,” he murmurs, near close to breaking with relief.

She looks up. His red-eyed gaze meets her, drinking in her stare like a wanderer in the desert. Whatever he sees, it lets him breathe out softly. She finds the promise of safety once more, despite what rocks her bones unceasingly.

“I couldn’t see you,” his voice rumbles into a stream. “Your soul. When I looked into your eyes as he was… You’re here now. I’m so glad you’re here now, Angela.”

His hand cups her cheek. Carefully, he kisses his forehead. Angela closes her eyes underneath his soft, guarding lips. A leak of warmth from her soul spreads throughout her veins. His kiss lingers before he pulls away. Their eyes hold each other again. Content to stay this way forever, in Genji’s arm, looking back at him, Angela breathes out. Although, she wishes she could wipe away the wrinkles in the red marks on his face with just her thumb.

“Is it still here?” Angela can’t help the whimper that laces through her words. Genji clutches her tighter.

“Is what still here?” he asks, concerned.

“My soul. Is it… still bright, like you always said it is?”

At the moment Genji’s gaze holds her, loving and protective, Angela shatters. She doesn’t know how many days have gone by under Reaper’s possession. She has no idea what scars he’s given her body, what unforgiven deeds he tried. He had her soul in chains. He must have turned it as black as the smoke he’s made up of. Every piece inside of her feels like it’s been chewed, swallowed and regurgitated. It’s stained with a slick liquid that slips everything she knows of her body out of her hands.

“Oh,” Genji breathes, soothing her with a lullaby of his cords. “Angela, I wish you could see it for yourself. It’s still right here.”

His hand falls from her face, setting two fingers over her sternum. The pounding life within beats against his fingertips. Genji holds it there, starting at what only spirits know of. Angela covers his hand with her own, laying it over her heart as to believe that she’s not stained.

“You’re so beautiful. Like the sun. I’ve never seen something so bright,” Genji whispers lovingly. “You’re strong. There is nothing Reaper could ever do to harm this.”

Slowly, Angela nods, containing the tremble of her jaw. Stinging in the corner of her eyes forces her to blink. Genji’s gentle hand lays on her neck and lowers his forehead to rest against hers. Mindful of his horns, they stay pressed together. They breathe, both terrified and relieved and not so cold anymore.

A quiet sob leaves her throat. Genji stays with her.

“It was so cold,” her whisper trembles. Her fingers curl around Genji’s hand as it stays against her chest, the force crushing. “There was pure darkness all around me. I couldn’t see or hear anything. Reaper had these chains… he puts these chains on me. I wanted to move but I couldn’t.”

Genji somehow comes closer, pressing against her. He doesn’t shush her or tell her it’s over. Only a comforting note of a hum leaves his throat. Like a candle in the deepest bowels of a cave, he clings to her.

The one point of activity Angela experienced was the brief conversation she held with Reaper. She was trying to talk, to scream, and he finally loosened the chain covering her mouth.

No. She can’t tell Genji that. She doesn’t even want to think about it. She wants to shove every dark thing away and hide in the safety of the bed and Genji’s arms.

Yet, even here, the darkness finds her.

Genji shifts to hold her against his chest once more. Slipping around him as well, her fists press against his backside. As they stretch out in bed, she finds his chest as the only pillow soft enough to hold her weary head. Another sob shakes her person. Genji rubs her back.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what he did to you,” he murmurs. His river contains splashing anger and weeping comfort. “I should have done more to protect you…”

“What did he do?” Angela opens her eyes, still pressed into his embrace. “Why is Jack here? How many days was I… gone?”

“We don’t have to talk about this now. You can rest first, if you want,” Genji quickly gives. His dark fingers stay still against her spine, feeling her shake. It brings to mind a leaf in a windstorm.

“I need to know,” she gets out through the thickness of her throat.

A sigh moves through him. Angela wonders if he’ll be completely honest, to spare her the worst of nightmares, but he’s never lied to her. If he didn’t want to tell her something, he would simply not speak.

A quiet breath lifts his chest, holding her cheek in the inhale.

“Okay,” his whisper falls against her temple. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Angela nods, gripping him harder than before.

Reaper. Genji always twists the name on his tongue like poison. He tried to escape at first. Genji stopped him. Once a demon has taken a body, they’re subjected to mortality’s rules. A weakness, and one that is constantly Angela’s. She doesn’t know what to make of it, aside from being grateful Genji stopped her body from getting out the front door.

She can’t think about what would have happened then, to her, to Genji.

Genji did his best to make her body comfortable while containing Reaper. The mattress, the answer to the question she first posed, was set in the basement. He was forced to tie Reaper up as he was attempting to harm her. Eventually, Zenyatta came.

Zenyatta helped them. Angela breathes out slowly, inhaling relief.

Jack appeared during Reaper’s second escape attempt. People are wondering where she is, her work, her friends. Of course, Jack would come looking first. A quiet ball of regret sits in Angela’s stomach at dragging Jack into this. He didn’t have to know and be overwhelmed, and perhaps misunderstand her and Genji’s relationship, but that’s a bridge she’ll cross when she gets to it.

Jack stopped Reaper from hurting her. At this, Angela lifts her hand to brush against the corner of her jaw. A small scab is still trying to heal. A shiver creeps down through her bones. Genji kisses her cheek to banish it away.

Then came the exorcism. Wow. Putting the word to the reality of it startles her heart. She was possessed by a demon. Genji and Zenyatta got him out of her. Her body is warm and cold all at once.

She turns her mouth to the hollow of Genji’s throat. She kisses him softly, breathing while Genji hums a note. It rumbles through him and into her. His fingers reach up and brush through her hair.

“Did you feel any of it?” he asks quietly, his brow crinkled.

“A little.” No more than what the black room allowed in, until the golden hands ripped it apart, and began breaking chains. Reaper’s yelling scared her. His threats of ending her life was unspoken, but very clear. She braced for the reality before the golden hand retreated, leaving a weak Reaper, and a new pair of dark hands to finally take him away.

“I remember you taking Reaper away,” she breathes.

A soft nod touches his chin to the top of her head.

“Did it hurt?”

There was only light and darkness. One moment a flood of gold, then darkness, and then, finally, sleep. If there was pain, Angela wasn’t in any position to actually feel it. If her body was dying, Angela wouldn’t have known until it was too late.

A brief memory flashes before, at the initial start of Reaper taking over her. She did scream. Something ached in her then, but much more pointed, like a dagger slashing through her innards. That was only for a moment, and then it was gone.

“No,” Angela says.

“Good,” Genji murmurs, stroking her hair.

A gentle ambiance of Genji’s breathing and his constant touch over her silently urges Angela to be still. Her eyelids are heavy. She’s starting to become warm, even against Genji’s cool form. The worst doesn’t really seem over, but she has to believe it for now.

She shudders, almost choking on the exhale of air in her throat.

“Angela?”

She tilts her head back, finding his concern in vivid red. Angela silently asks. Genji leans down, slowly, and meets her lips.

They kiss and tremble together. Angela grips his neck, afraid of letting go and afraid of holding on. He tastes like mist and the dry residue of tears. She’s not alone. He knows that darkness brings back the memory of chains. The wetness underneath her eyes isn’t mysterious. The peace she can take is him, and the not so scary emptiness of sleep.

“I love you,” Genji whispers when they pull apart. 

He puts his entire being into the breath that tells her so, but guilt weighs down his words like sin. His red eyes gleam like the oath of blood. Every inch of him touching her does so with the intent to make her safe, and brave again.

“I love you, too,” Angela murmurs, blinking away a tear. It trails down the side of her face. It gets wiped away as she lowers herself against his chest. He holds her tight.

She imagines that his heartbeat would mirror her own tempo.

Somehow, Angela closes her eyes and doesn’t see a bone face demon ready to lunge. She feels Genji’s love through his fingertips and breathing and lips. His arms chase away the real darkness, so she may slip away into something peaceful.

*

In the time before he met Angela, Genji was never thankful for the fact that he can’t sleep. It’s a constant, never ending existence that drones on and on. 

She breathes softly against him. He tucks her into this special, safe place against him, and forces every terrible thing to flee. The gentle scent of honeysuckle falling off of her hair fills Genji with peace. The beat of her heart doesn’t skip or pound too loudly. It’s hers. It’s Angela’s life and soul.

Genji strokes her hair, looking down in the middle of the night, or early in the morning. A weariness clings to the bruises underneath her eyes. Those won’t go away for some time. Occasionally in her sleep, she shivers violently. Genji nearly slips out of her hold just to grab another blanket, but even unconscious, her grip tightens on him. The action alone soothes what once tormented him.

A part of him understands that she’s not shivering from the coolness of his person.

As he rubs her backside in an attempt to chase away whatever darkness clings to the edges of her awareness, Genji is glad he doesn’t sleep.

She’s here now. He can exist without the torture of wondering if she’s going to be used as a puppet, or killed in such a fashion as to prompt a vengeful ghost. He refuses either idea as possible. She’s alive. She’s free.

He holds her now, and kisses her hair whenever she stirs.

The hours trickle by. Through the guest bedroom window, a lavender dawn brushes away dark blue and stars. Genji has the advantage of not needing to move, or needing anything, and stays with her through her slumber. The urge to see her soul, or even her eyes, creates anxiety that only settles down when he finds the rising sun in her person.

Before the first rays of light toss a cornflower blue onto the ceiling of the world, a gentle knock echoes at the door.

Genji reflectively bares his teeth but doesn’t relax his jaw when Zenyatta silently eases the door open. His crimson eyes cut through the monk. The braided rope hangs in the back of his mind like a noose. Understanding why the demon’s gaze is leveled like a blade, Zenyatta calmly regards him cradling Angela as she sleeps.

“How is she?” Zenyatta asks softly.

A burst of flame leaps over Genji’s tongue, but it sizzles out. He glances back to her closed eyelids.

“She’s cold. She’s scared of Reaper, and what he did to her,” he lowers his voice. “She asked me what happened. She had to process it… but she’s strong. She’ll be okay.”

Zenyatta nods.

“That is to be expected, but she will recover,” he says. “Will you bring her downstairs? Jack will not take it well if he wakes up and she is not in his sights. There is food waiting for her when she is ready to wake up.”

The burning urge to snap and tell the monk to get out of their house presses on Genji’s control. If she wasn’t sleeping beside him, he would. The monk senses the air shift with his anger. Calmly, he meets his gaze.

“You have challenged my assumptions, Genji, but I am upholding it within myself to keep Angela safe,” Zenyatta declares in an empathetic voice. “But I hope there is a path that you can take to heal from the wounds of the past.”

Like a marble statue of a war waging general, Genji twists his mouth into barely contained fury. The audacity of the monk is staggering.

“How can I heal?” he hisses. “I’m already dead.”

Angela stirs, pulling apart the tension created by Genji’s presence. He turns away from Zenyatta. Genji murmures a quiet apology but explains that he needs to carry her downstairs. A brief nod rubs her cheek against his chest. Slowly, Genji takes one comforter, wrapping Angela within it, and slips out of bed with her bridal-style in his arms.

Zenyatta watches this, a thoughtful air hanging to his expression. It boils anger inside Genji’s chest. His hands don’t harden into fists, however, as Angela’s cheek falls against him.

As if he’s carrying her to bed after a late night working and she fell asleep on the couch downstairs.

He wants those nights back.

Morning brings kind sunlight through the windows. Following Zenyatta’s path, Genji carries Angela down the stairs and to the living room couch. It’s too close to the basement for his taste, but Zenyatta carries enough confidence to banish Reaper’s bone white face from his mind. The braided ropes in the house acts as a blaring, neon sign, decarling Genji’s trespassing.

The black smoke Genji senses like a forelonging fire stirs in the basement, but lies in one place. The demon is still recovering. Once he’s able to gather himself once more, he’ll return to his reign of terror. Genji has to bite down on his jaw to keep from growling.

The evil will be taken care of, soon.

In his steady walk, Angela’s eyes slowly open. Silently, she comes to the golden sunlight and the calm serenity of an early day.

“Angela,” Genji speaks softly as he lowers her onto the couch. Her hand clutches the comforter around herself. Pulling her knees into her chest, she sits up against the backrest. Genji kneels beside the couch, taking her other hand as it reaches for him. “Is this alright?”

She nods slowly. The smile she gives is brittle and small, but it slips the energy of the sun into Genji.

“Dr. Ziegler,” Zenyatta sits down across from her, mindful of the space she shares with Genji, “Are you alright?”

“Zenyatta,” she breathes out, “I’m so happy to see you.”

“As am I happy to see you,” he smiles in this genuine warmth that makes Genji sick. The necklace of orbs around his neck at least acts as a barrier for Angela.

“Genji told me that you and he performed the exorcism,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he gives humbly, then nods his head to the kitchen. “There is water and food. Can I get some for you?”

“Yes, please,” Angela sighs.

It’s been nearly two days since her body has actual food in her stomach. Sips of water here and there kept her from dehydration. After the shock has worn away somewhat, she must be feeling the full effect of hunger.

Zenyatta gets up and walks away. Genji follows his path with his eyes, unable to forget that he was the only hope that walked in through the door when all else seemed lost. His anger is a monster, ravenous and never satisfied. The braided rope still sticks into his side like a thorn, but Angela’s hand is warm as she laces it through his fingers.

Begrudgingly, Genji allows his animosity towards the monk to die, for now.

Her blue eyes find him. One look lifts his red vision into oceans of relief. She squeezes his hand and whispers, wanting to know if he’s alright.

Before he can nod, a few heavy steps echo from the private office. Angela and Genji turn, finding Jack in the doorway with a wrinkled shirt and a near frantic expression. As the old man sees Angela, he breathes out.

“Hey,” he finally says, warily regarding Genji’s position in holding Angela’s hand.

“Hello, Jack,” Angela says softly, albeit with the new challenge laid before her. The tensions through her limbs melt, little by little. In the presence of those who care about her, she’s setting her bravery back into place within her soul.

Softly, Genji rubs his thumb over her knuckles, relieved in her sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a little break from all the bad things. Things slow down during this part, but it’s all for the sake of actually giving Genji and Angela some much needed relief.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s some explaining to do, and a plan concering the demon in Angela’s basement. Genji also seems to be a little on edge about something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy writing the relationships between everyone in this AU, and not just the romantic one. Jack and Angela are honestly good friends, and for the moment, Genji and Zenyatta are getting along, too.

Late summer hangs on with playful sunbeams. The sun lays its warmth over her skin. Seated on the top step of the porch, outside in the fresh air, Angela hugs her torso. Her damp hair chills her neck but promises to not remain so in the early afternoon heat. Clean clothes and a shower does wonders for her state of mind.

She almost believes there’s no black smoke making her throat sore.

At her back, the front door is propped open at Genji’s request. He remains within the frame of the house but she won’t deny him the safe sight of herself. The last few days have instilled a concern into Genji that can’t be shaken off in a matter of minutes. She doesn’t blame him. She, too, needs to be able to glance behind her shoulder and see his form in the living room. As she takes time to remember that the world still spins, he and Zenyatta discuss matters in low tones further within. 

Jack stands on the cement walkway. Between two garden beds of marigolds and pansies, he looks to her with an expression she can’t quite pick apart. There’s the occasional flicker into the house, landing upon the demon he has no reason to believe won’t do any harm. A pout of concern presses his thin lips into an even inner line. Learning that his good friend is involved with concepts beyond mortal understanding is taking its toll. Ragged and on edge, he looks to her. He knows the story, but not from her lips.

Angela tilts her head back to meet Jack’s intense gaze.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, on the verge of rebuking.

A sigh moves through her, but thankfully not a shiver.

“I don’t know how to explain all this to anyone, much less without sounding insane.”

His brow wrinkles. Looking away, he runs a hand over his white hair before rubbing the back of his neck.

“You still should have.” Jack shifts his weight to the other foot. Jerking his chin towards the house, he looks past her. “At least that monk guy knew, or you would still be possessed and tied up in the basement.”

The word causes a tremble over her eyelids. Jack drags a breath out of his teeth and Angela can imagine the curses he’s directing at himself.

“Sorry, Angela. Are you alright?”

Is she? She’s not currently in chains hidden away in a black room within her own body, helpless. She’s safe, surrounded by people who care about her. Yet, dark claws will reach out to her in quiet moments. A growling voice promises that he’s not finished.

A silent burst of ice water floods her chest. Angela makes a noise that’s not a yes or no.

Jack steps forward. Their relationship carries a great deal of respect for each other. Jack’s older, and a veteran from a war that’s left him a little shell-shocked. Angela’s been mistaken for his daughter once or twice, but their friendship is honest. Awkwardly, but with genuine worry, Jack pats her arm.

“You can come to my house. You don’t have to stay here with… this,” and he gestures to all of the house.

“Thank you, Jack,” Angela whispers. Warmth like honey slips through her veins, as well as Genji’s presence and Zenyatta’s calm words. “But I’m not leaving Genji.”

Pure frustration works through his rough cheekbones as Jack straightens. Subtly isn’t a description to label Jack with, especially with how he views this entire ordeal.

“Look, Angela, if this is a cult or something you didn’t mean to get mixed up in, I can help—”

“It’s not a cult,” Angela sighs, not for the first time. Aside from the fact that there are two demons in her house, there’s no reason for him to think that.

“I just don’t understand how you can be fine with something like…” Jack pauses as he once more looks over Angela’s head and into the house. “…Him.”

There it is. The one thing she knew would come from the truth revealed. Anyone from the outside only sees Genji’s red horns and his stark white face. A demon. A demon preying on a woman, no less. Angela was afraid of that at first, too, but the soft things he whispers to her before she falls asleep at night is too gentle to be anything but good. Of course, Jack has every reason to worry, but Angela isn’t careless or ignorant. She’s made her decision. That decision excludes Zenyatta’s concern as well.

It’s not theirs to understand. She and Genji are for each other, no one else.

Angela finds Jack’s hard, but worrying gaze. She forces him to see her, and her truth.

“Jack, I know Genji looks scary, and he does some scary things, but he is more than that. You need to trust that I know what I’m doing. If you get to know him, you’ll see what I see.”

She pauses, remembering Genji’s desperate hands reaching for her, even straining against the holy rope that kept him at bay, just to feel her safe in his arms. 

“I never could have imagined something like this happening. It’s a dream sometimes,” she says softly. “I know this is overwhelming but you have to try and understand, Jack. Please, try.”

He looks back. His jaw works, unhappy, but he nods slowly. A breath loosens in Angela’s constricted chest. Hugging her sides, her hands squeeze in a small victory.

“Okay,” it comes out like a chore, but Jack dips his head. “Okay, but you need to start talking to me about these things, no matter how bizarre. I can’t be left out.”

“Alright,” she says. That won’t be difficult.

The sunlight falls around him, lightening his shoulders. Slowly, Jack turns around and lowers himself onto the last step. They are two normal people digesting the effects of spirits and holy acts. A kind peace settles over Angela’s sternum. Her heart, hot with blood, beats away the last traces of Reaper’s face.

Angela loosens one hand from around her and pats Jack gently on the shoulder. He grunts and they fall back into a warm, comfortable silence.

*

A piece of cantaloupe sits on Angela’s tongue before she chews and swallows. She picks a grape next, taking the time to carefully gauge her stomach’s reaction to the small bits of light food. It sits in her belly calmly. She takes another bite-size piece of melon from the bowl. Moving her jaw is another action she didn’t believe could be so rewarding to do, until Reaper.

Everyone gathers around her kitchen table. Genji materializes, startling Jack. He quickly crosses his arms and leans back against the counter by the sink. A cool hand brushes her lower back, bringing a soft smile from her lips. His horns gleam red before he deems the situation less worrisome. Zenyatta takes a seat beside Angela, hands steepled on the edge of the table.

What a strange group of souls. There must be a joke here.

A doctor, a monk, a veteran, and a demon all walk into a bar…

Angela can only view it softly. Lightness washes through her like a wave, content that all parts of her life are coming together in a time of need. In any other case, if Angela and Genji were more careful, this never would have been. She could never bring herself to tell Jack about this part, but here he is, on edge but staying. Even Zenyatta and Genji are speaking openly and civilly with each other. Before, the only thing Genji offered the holy man was a growl or a slamming door.

A part of her leans on Zenyatta being as helpful to Genji as he is to her, perhaps even more so.

“Angela,” Zenyatta says, turning to face her. His voice carries a heaviness that lays upon her chest. “Genji and I were discussing the best method to remove Reaper from this house.”

She searches for Genji. He stands a little behind her, at her side. As she twists in her seat to meet his gaze, he takes it with a furrowed brow. It quickly smoothes out along with a tilt of his head to reassure her.

“What did you discuss?” she asks Zenyatta but leaves her eyes on Genji.

He reaches out and touches her shoulder blade. The contact soothes the heat rushing through her veins.

“It is difficult to not get rid of all the spirits when blessing a house to be free of demons,” Zenyatta begins, “but I have a method that Genji believes will spare him if I do it properly.”

A series of emotions overflow from her edges. Relief. Sweet relief at finally gaining her home with Genji back, and returning to the life they were building together. Fear as black as a new moon blinds her alongside the positive emotion, chilling her blood. That’s a very big ‘if’ Zenyatta uses. What if he sends Genji into oblivion along with Reaper? Her already shaken mind freezes with terror at forsaking him to a real end. Then, wonder. What if they did make it work? If Zenyatta discussed it with Genji, and he isn’t electrifying the air with rage, there must be a chance.

Jack glances from her to the demon, then to the monk. Silently, he watches this unfold with a furrowed brow.

“Genji, are you sure?” she presses.

His red irises glint. The shine remembers Reaper dragging her down the stairs and pressing a knife to her throat with her own hand. A firm nod settles the matter in seconds. His determination almost persuades Angela’s soul.

“But there is a risk that it will affect Genji,” Angela states, looking at Zenyatta with a barely contained fright.

He dips his head. The heavy necklace of orbs around his shoulders hardly jostle with the motion. It slips a cold stream of ice into her center.

“Yes, but if you are to remain living in this house, it must be done. The simple talismans I have placed are not eternal security. It would only be a matter of time before Reaper regains his strength and attempts to come for your body again,” he says, solemn.

“You need to let him do this, Angela,” Jack’s voice rises over her twisting thoughts. He hardens with the obvious answer. The basement door sits in the corner of her vision.

Reaper hasn’t made one noise since the exorcism. It did a number on the demon but Genji growls when reporting that he’s beginning to get restless in the basement. Soon, he’ll try something. The golden braid of rope over the threshold doesn’t shine so brightly anymore. 

It’s a chance, but why is Genji so willing to make it? Isn’t he afraid, like her? Jack and Zenyatta are too willing to have it be done. She would have assumed Genji to have the opposing vote but he’s standing as if before a guillotine with dignity still in his face.

Her heartbeat slows. Through the past months, Angela has come face to face with demons, a killer, and having her body possessed. She survived every encounter. Her sensibly and bravery is no less worse for wear. Scars and bruises mean nothing when she lays down at night with a loving creature.

But knowing that Genji could be destroyed scares her to death. All of her fearlessness comes crashing down as she reaches a hand up to cover the one he lays on her shoulder blade. His dark fingers tense underneath the new tremble of her person.

“Only if you’re sure,” she whispers. Her hand clutches his, wishing to anchor him to her own soul.

“I am,” he murmurs.

Genji steps closer. Gently, he places a kiss on her cheekbone. It lingers against her skin like a goodbye. Her expression almost gives away how much she wishes to say no. Instead, she breathes in deeply and meets Zenyatta’s gaze. In the back of the kitchen, Jack’s hard stare doesn’t let up. He mulls silently, sparing a deadly glance to the basement door.

“Zenyatta,” Angela speaks with a level voice, “promise me you won’t go through with this if you’re not absolutely certain you can do it without affecting Genji.”

His rich dark eyes stay calm as he returns her desperate stare. Behind her, Genji sighs in relief.

“I promise, Dr. Ziegler,” he swears.

That’s all Angela can ask for now as Genji holds onto her.

*

There are a few scared items Zenyatta must gather from his monastery to perform the cleansing. If he keeps it confined properly, the cleansing will only sweep the basement. With the golden rope containing the dark spirit within, they’re safe for now. At dawn, Zenyatta will once again return with all that they need to banish what plagues this house.

Before he leaves, Zenyatta gives his necklace of golden orbs to Jack. If he’s to stay, he must have this on his person. Angela tries to persuade him to go home and get some rest, but Jack refuses.

“I’m staying here until that demon is out of your house.”

She smiles. Jack stays.

Genji only regards him with minor indifference and occasional annoyance. The few wary glances Jack spares Genji are careful at best, and defensive at worst. He jumps whenever Genji randomly appears out of thin air. The small amusement he gets out of making her friend flinch doesn’t miss Angela’s eyes. Her rebuking is light at best though. Nothing truly malice flares out from Genji. He teases that Jack would be the sort to pull out a gun to get rid of the spiritual entities from this place, and Angela can’t help but agree.

Anticipation fills the evening walls as the remaining three waits for the monk’s return. Trying to offer the guest bedroom to Jake is useless. He just waves her off and makes the couch with a spare bed sheet and blanket. Perhaps he sees how wide her eyes grow whenever she stares at the basement door for too long.

Genji will touch her arm when she loses herself to black smoke and fears. His coolness brings her home. The murmurs he muffles her ears with chase away the returning threat of Reaper’s growl from within. There’s no reality where she gets through this night without his presence.

Before the moon drapes the world in silver light, Angela makes a few calls. Her work is very, very merciful with her absence, although she rebukes herself plenty with the knowledge that her patients are waiting. Thankfully, Jack had the sense to call in to report a vile sickness she contradicted. His cover saved her. It’s still in place until, hopefully, tomorrow evening. When the nightmare is over.

She’s tired. Genji knows this as he playfully tugs at the end of one lock of hair. As her hair lays down along her shoulders, it’s not the same, but happy nostalgic passes through her like a warm breeze.

She dresses in warm sweatpants and a long sleeve pajama top. In the guess bedroom, Genji waits. The door opens with an invisible hand, and she makes it to the bed before crawling under the covers.

If she closes her eyes tight enough, it’s simply another night. Her arms are open, waiting. A cool body slips against her, carefully tugging up one corner of the blanket to cover her completely. There’s nothing to think about, for in the morning she should have work. He’ll hold her all night, awake, devoted, and free of the monster coming for them.

His soft breath touches her ear. She hugs him tightly, meaning to keep him at this moment for as long as possible. Eternity, if she was capable of it.

“Angela?” he asks quietly, concerned. The tension in her hands as she lays them on his chest gives her away.

“Why aren’t you worried about the cleansing?” she finally asks.

As she has his face on the same pillow she rests her head on, she pictures a reality of falling asleep in an empty bed. It’s too cold, and too open.

A quiet sigh leaves him, forlorn and resigned.

“I trusted Zenyatta with your life, and he didn’t betray me… mostly. If any holy person could get rid of Reaper but allow me to stay, it’s him,” Genji says so matter of factly, Angela almost lets go of real fear.

Almost.

“And…” Genji continues slowly, “it’s the only way. Reaper has to be destroyed. I’ll drag him to hell myself if I have to—”

“Genji,” Angela gasps.

“He can’t hurt you again,” Genji barrels on. His eyes cut through the comforting darkness like a flashing beacon, warning of what will come. His grip tightens around her, bent on only one thing. “You deserve a long, happy life. I won’t keep you from that and curse you into something like myself.”

“Genji!” Angela sits up in a flash. The warm comfortable bunches around her waist as she turns on him. Genji moves as well, kneeling to face her above the covers. The look in his red eyes scares her the most.

Acceptable, of whatever will come, even oblivion.

He’s never acted like this before.

She looks to him with bewildered eyes, her lips parting. Slowly, she reaches out. She takes his cheek in her palm, avoiding the sharp end of the horn jutting out from the corner of his jaw. He leans into her touch. Genji’s eyelids flutter, giving away the constant craving he has for intimacy and human warmth. She brushes her thumb along his cheekbone for a moment.

“You don’t deserve to be cleansed away,” she says softly.

Genji opens his eyes. His brow furrows as he covers her hand with his own dark one. His expression breaks her heart. The great demon is weak under her hand, and at last, reveals the sorrow he’s carried for too many years.

“Angela, I can’t exist without this again.” He brushes his lips against her palm, the kiss temporary. “I can’t do this for another hundred years. I can’t continue on without someone who actually sees me and talks to me and makes me believe I have a shred of humanity left.”

Her soul becomes cold for a very, very different reason. She wraps her hand around the back of his neck, tugging him closer. She needs to feel him. He falls against her. Their foreheads carefully press together, sharing the same cool air.

Salty tears swell in Angela’s eyes. His truth is terrifyingly real, and inevitable. She feels his reluctant terror at being alone again, at losing her, at remaining in her absence for a never-ending punishment. Her life is fleeting. He already sees it fading and leaving him in a permanent dusk.

“Angela,” he murmurs like a prayer. “I love you. I love you with every part of myself that I thought was forgotten. I love you in a way I thought I could only feel rage and hatred. I love you with the strength to keep going on, so long as you’re here. I love you with the same hope you give me.”

His other hand rests on her hip, holding her as if they’re about to dance instead of grieve. Her fingers clutch him tighter. It’s so cruel to have him but not keep him forever.

“I love you, too, Genji,” she whispers back, for the sake of her heart and soul.

He pulls away. As their eyes meet, hands still cradling the other, he smiles. The sight is so rare and breathtaking, Angela almost forgets that demons are meant to be scary and that she’s this close to losing the person she loves.

For one moment, Angela wishes he was human. Her soul demands his beating heart and warm skin underneath her hands. Like a child, she dreams that they met at the right time and found each other and lived long, happy lives until they were old and gray.

But if he was only human, he would have died long before she was ever meant to exist.

Angela blinks away the too fantastic fantasy, dripping tears down her face.

“There has to be something we can do,” Angela gets out through the thickness in her throat.

Genji starts to speak but she continues, unable to leave it be.

“To undo your demonic state,” she looks into his red eyes through a blurry film of liquid, “There has to be a way to save you.”

He pauses. The radical idea bouncing off of her lips isn’t a new thought in her head. She ponders the reality of saving him, not unlike the trauma surgeries she performs. If she can save them, she can surely save him. Somehow. If there’s some way, she will find it.

Genji’s too hesitant, too buried underneath defeat to really consider the idea. What could be done that he doesn’t already know about?

“Angela… “ he says softly, pitifully.

“I’ll find a way to save you,” Angela straightens with the statement. It floods her heart with willing blood and the memories of his every soft touch. “You have to hold on, Genji. Please, while I figure out how to.”

She knows the look he gives her is far from promising. Yet, for her sake, he slowly looks at her set lips and determined brow. Perhaps her hope is enough for now.

“Okay,” he says as a way to appease, “but let’s worry about Reaper first.”

His dark fingers tuck her hair behind her ear. She holds onto the cool sensation grazing across her cheek and the shell of her ear. She’s alive, burning with the need to find his salvation. To keep him from a never-ending, isolated existence, Angela would give up her soul.

He would do the same for her, in a heartbeat.

His thumb brushes away one tear. He hates the sight of the wet streaks on her cheeks. How many tears does she have left? They should have all dried up the night before.

Angela takes his hand before he can pull away, and lays her kiss onto his knuckles. The coolness combats the heat of her lips. He stills underneath her tender care, soaking it in like sunshine on a cold day.

When she lifts her head, he’s already leaning forward. Across the comforter and her trembling new hope, the demon finds her lips. He kisses in a manner that speaks another ‘I love you’. She stays against him, fitting into this precious space where both their spirits belong. He tastes like a midnight river. His breath against her chin sends goosebumps and excitement into her skin. They missed this and needed a reminder of why they’re both fighting.

He cups her cheek, parting to let them breathe before moving in again.

The thunder of a door being thrown open and slamming into a wall rocks the house. Angela jumps. Genji jerks away, looking down at what she cannot see. She grips him tighter.

His red eyes flash lethally.

“You fool,” Genji growls.

He wordlessly scoops her up. His fangs bare themselves with frustration. She holds onto his neck as he lifts her off the bed. Wind from their movement whips Angela’s hair back as Genji rushes out of the bedroom and to the top of the stairs. She tries to say his name. Panic brews in Angela’s skin within his arms.

Everything stops, dropping dead within her at the nightmare standing in the basement doorway.

One hand grabs the frame for support. A shoulder leans against the opening, before slowly straightening. The holy braided rope is deliberately kicked aside. There’s no sign of the golden orbs.

Jack’s eyes look up to her, dark as polluted smoke. Her dear friend’s face morphs into a sneering grin. He takes a step forward, but it is not Jack who moves his legs.

Angela’s heart stops cold. The dark, cool arms that hold her can’t combat the chains and black smoke threatening to overwhelm her again. Growling, Genji turns the air into charged fury without moving an inch. He gently lowers her to her feet, his hands lingering on her arms in a silent command. _Stay here._

Reaper has Jack.

“Jack!” Angela cries.

In a silent wind, Genji disappears. Angela clutches her heart as Reaper in Jack’s body runs across the living room. The front door is the only barrier between him and the entire world. On impulse, she hurries down the stairs. Her mind can only see Jack in the dark room filled with black smoke. Chains upon chains wrapping him up, weighing him down into defeat.

Like a shadow at his feet, Genji appears. His dark hand snags Reaper by the back of Jack’s neck, and with a restraint that physically pains him, tosses him to the carpet in the living room.

“I will not let you harm any more souls,” Genji’s voice darkens, growling with demonic cords, all sent upon Jack’s white hair.

Reaper props himself on Jack’s elbows, cutting through Genji with invisible knives. He glances with stolen blue eyes to Angela. Her blood freezes. The attempt to hide away what crawls underneath her skin fails miserably.

She races for answers. How did this happen? Someone had to have moved the rope. Jack is supposed to have the holy necklace of golden orbs. Where is it?

“You wouldn’t throw her to the floor like that,” Jack’s voice echoes, but it’s layered with dark, grumbling cords that have never been his own.

Something blind to her mortal eyes unfold. Jack’s head falls. Genji lunges towards Angela, red eyes wide as he swipes with his dark hand. It passes harmlessly through the air. At the moment all of it occurs, Genji slips through the space of the house unnaturally. He rushes up the steps, standing as a wall between whatever she can’t see. His crouched, terrifying form stops the wave of frigid air from slamming against her.

It flees as quickly as it came. In seconds, Jack rises, but it’s not him. Angela reaches past Genji but he stops her. Reaper’s going to getaway! There’s a tension in Genji’s dark form that refuses to allow a second mistake. Moving directly into her path on the steps, Genji wraps an arm around her waist. His expression is stone, set only on Jack’s body as Reaper runs.

In mute horror, Angela’s wide eyes watch Reaper reach the front door and fling it open. A ghostly laugh leaves Jack’s lips. He jumps out into the world under the light of the stars and the darkness they share.

“JACK!”

Angela struggles, crying out as Genji lets her go. At the top of the steps, Angela rushes down, nearly stumbling on the landing. In the front door, she looks out into the night. A distant figure is already fading down the road. The peaceful suburban houses sleep while Angela’s soul crumples.

On adrenaline and reflex, Angela grabs her small purse. Her phone’s already in there. She turns but an arm wrapping around her waist tugs her back from the door.

“He’s getting away!” Angela looks back, meeting Genji’s worried, wrinkled eyes. What is he doing? Why does he keep stalling and holding her back?

“Angela, he’ll kill you with Jack’s hands. I can’t protect you outside of this house,” his voice lowers, resigned but firm. “Reaper tried to go after you. I can’t let that happen to you again.”

He protected her but left Jack defenseless. Of course, Genji was going to choose her over him, but Angela darts back and forth between her love holding onto her, and the night that slips away a murderer in her friend’s body.

She can’t leave Jack. A certain hell consists of Reaper’s possession, and she can’t forsake Jack to that. However, she can’t bring him back on her own.

“Help me,” she whispers. As desperate and fearful as she is, this is the only thought that connects in her mind. It’s the only way.

“How?” Genji asks, willing. His grip on her holds tight.

“Come with me,” she turns on him. In his embrace, she lays her hand on the nape of his neck. The determination in her fingertips must enchant his being. In seconds, Genji’s sheet white face with red markings dawns in realization.

“No.” His refusal hurries along the already precious seconds rushing by. Angela brings him closer. Genji hesitates.

“Do you really want that? I don’t want to do that to you.”

“I’m asking you, Genji,” Angela breathes. “Come with me and save Jack.”

She doesn’t know if she could face him by herself and keep Jack’s body from being harmed. He and Zenyatta are the only ones who can help. Zenyatta isn’t here. The midnight air stalls her lungs. The demon before her looks back at her tentatively. His red eyes, like blood, like roses, finally close.

Angela shoves aside black smoke and heavy chains. Her bravery may falter but it will never die. Not inside of her, and not alongside Genji. They must both do this.

“I won’t be able to leave your body until we return to this house,” he warns quietly.

“It’s okay,” her voice softens. “I trust you.”

He touches her cheek. Holding her gaze, there’s nothing left to doubt.

He would never hurt her. He loves her. She loves him, with her mind, body, and soul.

“Okay,” he gives.

Angela closes her eyes. Slowly her lungs deflate. The spirituality of her senses him easily, like the smell of home. His dark hand fits around her heart. Slowly, he slips into her chest.

She braces for the chains. The black smoke must be waiting for her. A pitch dark room will take her again. She’s willing and ready, but it never comes. As she’s pulled inward, it becomes like the front half of a car. Genji carefully crosses over her in the driver’s seat and settles into the passenger side. The sensations of her limbs and heart and lungs stay as her own.

Her eyelids lift slowly, on her own accord. A cool mist fills her chest but never floats away in an exhale. It lingers in her chest cavity.

Genji.

The warmth of her own soul sits side by side with Genji’s cool, demonic being. She feels him, and every dark touch without shivering. Every twitch of her finger is her own. Fear interjects itself into her head, reminding that he’s absolutely capable of making the same chains Reaper made.

No.

He loves her. She trusts him.

“Genji?” she whispers in a mild state of shock.

_“I’m here.”_

His voice comes from her heart. Gentle and soothing. He waits for her to scream, to beg him to get out, but it never comes. Somehow, his energy is closely entwined with her own. Like a stethoscope to his heart, she hears every beat of his being. In apprehension, he awaits her rejection. She never gives it.

She holds up her palms. Closing her fists, the slightly chill follows with the motion. He could take her body, but he remains in the passenger seat, allowing her to drive.

_“Are you sure this is alright?” _his worried voice fills her internally.

She wraps her arms around her torso, hugging her body and the two souls within.

“Yes. It’s not… painful for you, is it?”

She has to know.

_“No, just cramped,”_ he breathes out a small note of humor.

Holding her own torso, with the purse on her shoulder, phone within, and a quick moment to slip shoes on her feet, Angela steps outside. Jack needs help. Genji feels her determination burning and warms his being on the fire. Carefully, he drawls into himself, leaving Angela the will to run into the street. His quiet encouragement sends bursts of energy throughout her entire person.

Together, she stands invincible.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a very unique situation, Angela gives Genji a gift as they await Zenyatta’s assistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This coming scene you’re about to read is one of my favorites in this series. It made me emotional and I had to pause several times while writing it to collect myself. There’s never been any real discussion about Genji’s cruel fate, until now. Enjoy! ♥

Genji should have been on guard, alert. In the moment over the bedsheets, Genji could only lean into Angela’s warm touch. He didn’t notice Jack’s soul stepping down the basement steps, golden orbs in hand, ready to remove the demon in Angela’s basement. The old man honestly thought it would be that simple.

The idiot miscalculated. One wrong move separated the holy necklace from his grasp, and Reaper leaped. The killer runs loose in a new body (but it’s not Angela’s). Her friend’s face isn’t familiar anymore. It would be too easy for Reaper to use him as he will, then take another when Jack outgrows his usefulness.

A pulse of rage wants to lunge through him, but it would ripple against Angela’s soul. Carefully, he reins in his sharper emotions. Angela doesn’t need to feel the full brunt of his anger. Worry already eats away at her as she runs. Genji’s only in the passenger seat, watching all of this unfold through her senses.

The urge to cut her off and take back the steering wheel, so to speak, jumps out from his demonic being. It’s not of his nature, but he fights it. It quickly grows easy to squeeze the impulse underneath his fear of Angela’s already trembling limbs. She’s been through too much, but she handles this so well.

She lets him keep her safe, despite how cold he must make her.

So long as Genji already occupies Angela’s body, Reaper can’t touch her soul again. Oh, he tried a second time. A second time couldn’t happen, and Genji didn’t let it. It came at the cost of losing Jack’s body, but he’s too selfish to not pay it.

Down the street in the middle of the night, Angela runs like a criminal. The sound of her heartbeat and the race of her lungs almost brings Genji to a time when he wasn’t just darkness and red horns. He had flesh and blood and bones. He was alive, too.

But he’s been dead a long time.

At least he can look at the stars without the frame of the window blocking out the rest of the expansive sky.

Angela’s voice calls out Jack’s name. Through the suburbs of houses, the world is eerily asleep. It’s for the better. However, Genji doesn’t need to search to understand how frantic Angela is to find her friend. He couldn’t have gotten far.

Several streets display empty, lifeless lampposts and dark lawns. Angela doesn’t stop. She whips her head around with Genji following her eyes as she peeks down every dark space between houses. Jack’s name rings out from her lips.

_“Angela.” _Genji tries softly.

“He can’t take him,” she mumbles seemingly to herself. “You know what Reaper will do with a new body and Jack… oh, Jack.”

Fear as cold as a silver blade strikes her soul. Genji takes in the effect, forcing his growls to be silent lest he scares her with the noise. Her desperation bubbles up from a complete understanding of what Jack is experiencing right now. It isn’t kind, or full of light. Angela turns down another street.

It’s empty, too.

Throughout nearly the entire suburbs, Angela runs. Genji looks through her eyes. Every shadow and patch of darkness between lamp posts could hide the killer. Their path takes them to the edge of the city before any real tall buildings gather. Breathlessly, Angela brings a hand to her chest, resting over him and her soul.

“We have to find him,” she murmurs, her voice thick. The cool night sends a shiver throughout her body. The sensation of cold skin feels like a memory to Genji.

_“We will,”_ Genji reassures.

“What if he’s already broken into someone else’s house? People will think it’s Jack…”

Her soul wavers. In the ache of her anguish, Genji struggles to find an answer. Reaper wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill someone in this neighborhood. He would be more focused on getting far away from the only ones who know how to stop him.

_“Call Zenyatta.”_

The monk can’t rest now. Not when a serial killer demon has the body of Angela’s friend.

She hesitates but dips her head as she pulls out her phone. It’s a little past 3 AM. The hour remains dark and cool. The stars keep pace as Angela walks down a path leading to a gas station and a twenty-four-hour diner. Blinding lights chase away the ghosts lingering at the edges of darkness.

Genji tunes into the ear Angela presses the phone against. It takes too many rings, but he finally answers.

“Zenyatta,” she’s breathless, and wastes no time, “Reaper has Jack.”

The monk, as much as he stirs aggression into Genji, has the sense to be calm and collected. He listens to the events. Quietly, Zenyatta confesses he never thought Jack would be bold enough to try and banish the demon himself. It was his mistake. Quickly, Angela says it’s no one’s fault but Reaper’s.

Genji has a vivid vision of Zenyatta’s reaction to his and Angela’s current state of being. Oh, if the monk thought Genji was evil before…

But Angela says nothing of it.

“I still have preparations to make to send the demon away,” Zenyatta starts. His voice doesn’t betray any weariness. “I will finish what I need here, then bring everything to your home and aid in finding Jack’s body.”

“Thank you,” Angela says quietly. They come to the sticker and poster lined wall of the gas station. A large poster displays pancakes with slabs of melting button on top from the attached diner. Genji stares at the image through Angela’s eyes.

Her soul suddenly brightens. Genji squints against her vibrant energy.

“Do not do anything rash. Wait for me,” Zenyatta all but pleads. “Reaper will be found, and we will help Jack.”

“We will, please hurry.”

She hangs up and stands before the diamond-bright lights. There are only a few souls within at this time of night. One behind the counter in the gas station, and maybe four people in the diner working the night shift.

A debate muses her lips. She works her jaw, looking back to the darkness of the street. Her brow furrows deeply before she sighs, and straightens her shoulders.

“Genji?” she whispers, stepping to the glass door. A bell rings as she walks into the dinner.

_“Yes?”_ he says, confused. What is she doing? Is she that hungry? The impression of hunger isn’t strong, but the late hour could be reminding her of its emptiness.

“Do you want to eat?”

Genji stills inside Angela’s body. His mind becomes as blank as a piece of paper. Stumbling internally, Angela already waits for the waitress in a bright orange outfit and white apron to lead her to a table.

“Here you go, love,” the young, perky woman sets one menu down at the table with a glass view outside. Her accent is thick English. The cushions are a little squished from years of use and colored a dark blue. The tabletop is brown and slightly sticky. Angela slides into the booth, calmly waiting on his hesitation.

“Thank you,” Angela says.

“Can I start you off with a drink?” the British woman asks, standing with her hip jutted to the side. A quirky flare of her short cut, brown hair matches her cheery demeanor. For it being in the dead of night, the woman is energetic. 

“Yes, um…” she pauses.

The thought that touches his mind is tea or coffee. He hasn’t drunken anything for a hundred years. Angela snatches up the minor impression he gives and searches the drink menu. There’s no tea that could please, but a cup of coffee isn’t hard to come by.

“Coffee,” she answers, lowering the menu. She sets her hands in her lap. Almost eagerly, her soul keeps shining, reflecting upon him within.

“Coming right up.” The waitress disappears in a flash.

What Angela hopes to give him catches up to Genji in a burst of adoration and reluctance.

_“Angela, I can’t take your body from you,” _he presses. She’s already been through that once. How could she handle it again, much less invite him to?

“Do you remember that night I was making tea?” she whispers, glancing carefully around to insure their isolation. “You told me about the teas you loved to drink. Ryokucha. Ujicha. Shincha.”

He does remember. It wasn’t any particular, or memorable evening. She was making a kettle. The steam from the cup she held in her hands brought him to a time before. His mother’s tea warmed his belly on the worst of days. It was one comment, and it didn’t hurt to talk about. Or rather, it didn’t hurt as badly.

“You told me you wish you could eat something,” Angela murmurs. “We have to wait for Zenyatta, and we’re both here. I want to give you this.”

Genji lives in conflict. Discord and chaos is what he is made of, and this is no different. She’s giving him something he’s lost for almost a hundred years. To taste warm food, to eat, and to swallow. The mere invite leaves Genji reeling in a sunlight pool of Angela’s tender love. She dips him softly, coating him in affection. But this is her body. If he takes it, even for the length of a meal, it would define his ever greedy nature. Always taking, unable to give.

It would make him like Reaper.

_“Angela… You don’t have to.”_

“I know, Genji, but I want you to have this.”

Her soul shines, eclipsing his doubts. His want to feel real, human, ultimately accepts Angela’s delicate gift.

Slowly, he eases her out of the driver’s seat. Angela lets him. As careful as handling glass, he settles her close beside him on the seat. The steering wheel rests underneath his palms. He slips throughout her body, taking the sensation of her fingers and toes and finally, blinks.

He opens her eyes.

Inside, Angela remains calm, content that she’s not locked away from her own senses. She can listen and watch. Her soul presses against his dark essence, unphased.

“I can stop at any moment,” Genji murmurs in Angela’s voice. It jars them both, but Angela’s smile presses against his being.

_“Get whatever you want,” _she says.

It’s a wave of almost forgotten sensations. Breathing. In and out. A heartbeat. Angela’s heartbeat drumming calmly under his direction. Fingers. He’s held and kisses them so many times, it’s bizarre to look down and curl them into loose fists. He does this several times. He keeps her chin raised, not wanting to stare at her own chest. Amusement blooms within Angela, reminding him it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

But it’s an experience of being alive.

The waitress reappears, carrying a mug and a pot of coffee. As she sets the mug down, she looks up at Angela’s face and freezes.

His demeanor is still that of a demon. Every soul could sense a difference from who walked into the dinner and who is currently taking the mug with careful fingers.

“You alright, love?” the waitress asks slowly, blatantly staring at his expression. The shiny label on her outfit reads Lena.

He dips Angela’s head. Her hair sweeps her cheeks, and he brushes them out of the way. The action tantalizes muscles and nerves.

_“It’s okay, Genji,”_ Angela murmurs to his restless spirit.

He breathes in deeply.

“Yes.”

Slowly, the waitress pours him a cup of coffee. The smell alone leaves Genji sighing. She asks if he needs another minute to decide, and he does. She takes the pot after pointing out a few house favorites. The waitress walks away with a strange backward glance at the solitary woman.

The mug slips into Angela’s fingers. Genji soaks in the precious heat. This sort of warmth has touched him once before when he’s close to Angela’s soul. Gripping the mug, he lifts it to her lips. The hearty aroma fills him. The first gentle sip works through Genji’s awareness. 

He makes an audible ‘Ah’. In her heart, Angela quietly laughs.

_“Do you like it?”_ she asks gently.

He’s never been much for coffee, but this tastes like the greatest thing in the world.

“Yes,” he breathes into the mug, taking another sip. “Are you still alright?”

_“Yes. It’s a little strange. I thought it would be like before… but it isn’t,”_ she quickly reassures. _“I know it’s you, but I also know it’s me. I’m not scared.”_

“I can stop,” he murmurs into his next sip. He deliberately made his hold onto her body weak. At any moment, Angela could jerk him away and take control. The fact eases what otherwise would have erupted the same trama Reaper thrust upon her.

_“Don’t. I want you to have this, Genji.”_

Angela nudges him towards a sugar packet. He rips it open, spilling a few specks of sugar before getting into the mug. He stirs it slowly, enjoying the motion of circling her wrist. The sugar dissolves. Genji takes another drink. The sweeter taste works down her throat, melting into his essence.

_“Order some food,” _she quietly prompts.

He rips his attention away from the taste on his tongue to the menu. The world has changed. It’s slipping away from his understanding but he’s managed to keep pace due to the glimpses of papers and T.V. reports. The photos of food are far from his usual diet while he lived but he remembers the picture of the pancakes outside.

Genji knows what he wants.

When the waitress returns, she’s still holding curious regards towards him. Unknowingly speaking to someone else entirely. She tops off his mug before taking his order. Cheekily, but in good spirit, she gives a comment about burning the midnight oil. Genji bobs Angela’s head.

_“I’m sorry it couldn’t be more… extravagant,” _Angela says softly, dreaming of fancy restaurants and the glasses they’d pour wine in.

Genji almost chuckles, not surprised that she apologizes. She partly gets what this means to him, but not the whole picture. Genji would have given away the rest of his existence for five minutes with a bowl of homemade food.

“It’s more than enough,” he whispers back, sincere as the seasons. “Thank you.”

The world allows Genji to believe it’s just him and Angela’s soul. The diner is lifeless. Neon signs flashing outside are dead relics. As selfish as he is, he can’t help but stretch her neck and sprawl her fingers. The fact that it’s his love’s body never leaves him. Every aspect is something he’s laid affection against. Yet, he can breathe, and he can exist with flesh and bones.

Angela ‘watches’ his little fidgets with a strange mixture of amusement, adoration, and sorrow. Several times he stops to ask if she wants him to give back her body, but her answer is always a swift no.

He’s never felt a soul’s loving determination to give something so precious. Like a golden locket, it hangs over his center. Her light is too warm. The treasure is worth its weight in centuries.

He doesn’t deserve her goodness.

The wait isn’t long. Genji drops Angela’s fingers from twining a few ends of her hair into a messy braid when the waitress sets down his breakfast platter. She gives a more confident smile as she pours him more coffee. Whatever effect he had before, she’s over it.

“Enjoy your meal, love.”

Genji gives a distracted thanks, his eyes only on the triple stack of pancakes. A side of hashbrowns, sausage and one egg wait for his attention. The aurora hits him. He’s smelled Angela’s cooking before and whenever she brews coffee in a faraway act. This touches his senses directly. The hot, sweet and salty scent brings saliva. Genji swallows tentatively, afraid to blink and let it all disappear.

“It’s not too late to tell me no,” Genji says, almost to himself.

_“I’m not going to,”_ her soul presses him onward._ “Honestly, Genji, if I had known you, well, we could do this, I would have taken you out to dinner a long time ago.”_

A strange noise bubbles in her throat out of Genji’s unintentional creation. Somewhere between a snort of disbelief and a fit of laughter.

He would kill to have dinner with her, in a proper setting, and look across the table to see her dazzling face. But not like this. Never before would he have suggested this.

He snatches up a small container of syrup with her hands. He balances daringly between taking his sweet time and all but dumping the syrup onto the food. The pancakes glisten with a rich brown coating. There’s even melting butter on top.

A hunger that’s not just in Angela’s stomach takes over Genji. He picks up a fork and knife. Cutting deliberately, he takes a slice out of the food that will be his first meal in over a hundred years.

He closes her eyes. The steaming bite slides into her mouth, but Genji brings her teeth together. He slides the fork out. Slightly salty but mostly sweet, fluffy pancakes release something buried within him. Years of isolation, of want, of anger, explode over the slow chewing and careful enjoyment of the food.

Genji swallows.

It’s so good.

He had tea with his mother. He listened to the stories his father told him. He had his own blood rushing within him, and his pounding pulse. It was never something he had before, but somehow, he misses not being able to touch Angela with his warm, natural hands.

He misses his brother…

Overwhelmingly, he wants to retreat and leave the living to Angela, whose soul is pure. Before he can, Angela’s being erupts with sunshine. It doesn’t burn like the golden orbs. It surrounds him throughout her veins. It tugs him gently back to her. Through impossibility, she wraps him up in her tender love, and Genji almost breaks into a thousand pieces.

He’s a demon, damned and forsaken. Yet, an angel draws her wings over him.

_“Genji,”_ her gentle voice reminds.

He hunches, pathetically drawing her arms around her torso and hugs himself, and her. The painful need to feel her actually holding his physical manifestation sends him close to the edge.

_“I’m sorry, Genji. I wish I could do more for you. I’m so sorry,”_ she murmurs like a lullaby. Genji clings to her soothing voice. _“Please, try and eat.”_

If he hadn’t been the haunting in that house for so long, he would have believed that everything will somehow be okay.

But she’s telling him to do the right thing. Enjoy this, and not give in to pitying himself, or for once, rage. She sees what he cannot, and thankfully, doesn’t feel what he does. He loves her, and shrinks in terror at what would have become of him had he never met her.

Genji slowly straightens. He sets her shoulders into a line, picks back up the fork, and dives into the alluring meal.

Her line of worry laces through him, impossible to hide while they reside so intertwined, but she makes an effort to hide it. Genji doesn’t acknowledge it. He eats, and drinks, and eats again. Savory bacon. Crispy, brown hash browns. Gooey and chewy eggs. At one point, Angela has to remind him to slow down, lest he choke. He’s taken to sharing bites of pancakes with bacon, mixing the salty with sweet. It’s beautiful.

When the waitress returns, her eyes widen upon all the empty plates. Quietly, Genji leans back against the seat, enjoying the physical presence of a full belly. He apologies again but Angela refuses it.

She starts to take his plate but pauses. Slowly, the waitress straightens with empty hands. Meeting Genji’s gaze, Angela’s eyes, she works her jaw for a moment.

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you look haunted, love.”

Genji stares at her. In the waitress’s brown, hopeful eyes, she leans back slightly. A nervous flicker sends her to look away. What’s in Angela’s expression, morphed by Genji’s presence, seals her statement into stone. He’s cold and dark. He’s tired and restless. The demon speaks in a bitter, cryptid tone within the voice of his love.

“You have no idea.”

_“Genji…”_

A silence stretches leathery wings across the diner, draping the waitress’s soul in deep shadows. She’s never quite scared but braced and determined. Genji notes the name tag ‘Lena’ and holds out his mug again.

“Lena, I want more cup, please.”

She stares a second more before near silently giving an affirmation. Her head falls for a moment. Quietly, thoughtfully, she gazes back at him.

“I hope you find peace, love.”

She leaves. Genji sits back. He blinks slowly, threading her fingers together and pulling them apart aimlessly. The real soul inside this body is unhappy. Her mirror is the waitress’s face. How badly she wants to stitch up every broken and bleeding piece of him almost makes Genji forget how much he hates what’s been done to him.

But she can’t.

The waitress pours him a cup and sets down the check. He drinks while pulling out cash from Angela’s purse with her assistance.

“Thank you,” he says steadily, without care if the only other living creature overhears him.

_“I’m glad you could enjoy it,”_ Angela says, bittersweet.

Slowly, he lets go. He shifts Angela over him, scooting down the seat to give up the position of the driver. The sensations of real smells, and the touch of flesh against wood or fabric, and the taste of sweetness on his tongue disappears. It all falls back to muted shadows. The whiplash threatens to break him.

The change in the waitress’s hand clinks together as she steps back to the booth. She abruptly stops when her eyes land on Angela. Angela looks back, bright, lively, and peaceful. Lena blinks, her mouth morphing the crazy, impossible question, but falls to silence.

“Thank you,” Angela says warmly, leaving a generous tip in the waitress’s palm.

Without a backward glance at the waitress’s suspicious and disbelieving expression, Angela stands up with a demon in her heart and walks outside.

*

Angela doesn’t know what to do.

She carries Genji inside of her. To explain this concept to a stranger would swiftly stamp her with the brand of insanity. Yet, she can’t take on the burden of his struggles. To feel the surge of pain usually buried deep behind the face of red horns creates an ache within her heart. One bite of food. That was all it took to remind Genji of his permanent prison inside his own home.

And Angela’s helplessness to fix it. That, along with with poor Jack, and the killer inside of his body. A thousand boulders press onto her backside, threatening to snap every vertebrate. She’s weary as she walks. Laying down would be in vain. Genji is quiet, lost to thoughts she can’t penetrate. He stirs alongside her soul, dark and cool and comforting.

Her phone rings before the fluorescent lights of the gas station fade behind them. In the dark street, Angela stops to see the screen displaying the name she hoped for.

Zenyatta must already be at the house. The shot of hope takes Genji’s attention away from bleaker endings. Picking up her feet, Angela answers. They’re wasting time, and Jack needs every second.

“Hello, Zenyatta?” she says, slightly breathless as she turns a corner.

“Please, there is no need for this.”

Zenyatta’s voice slips through the receiver, but it’s muffled. Her brow furrows as she glances to the phone screen. At the strange tone, Genji stirs. The sense of him pressing closer to the speaker comes to mind.

“You don’t understand your position, monk,” Jack’s voice twisted with dark growling tones turns Angela’s blood into ice. It comes from farther away, just as muffled.

_“Reaper,” _Genji hisses.

Clutching the phone in both hands, Angela holds her breath. Zenyatta. Wherever he is, Reaper is with him. Did he make it back to the house? Would Reaper go back there? No, he wouldn’t, unless he saw Zenyatta coming. He doesn’t have his harmony orbs. Oh no.

“We can speak about what plagues you. You are not entirely lost,” Zenyatta tries calmly.

A few swift footsteps thunder. A muffled noise like cloth scraps in the audio. Angela stifles a gasp, straining to listen.

“Be more concerned about saving yourself. I’m going to burn this entire monastery down, with you and all the others in it,” the frightening edge to Jack’s words cuts Angela’s skin.

_“The monastery!”_

It’s close. It’s only a few blocks away, hidden along a street dense with trees and ferns. How did he know to find it? Angela can’t answer that now. Her heart leaps up as she turns, and starts running.

Quickly, she mutes herself but stays on the line, desperately pleading for Zenyatta’s voice again. It comes.

“I sense bitterness and betrayal within you. You know this as well, but you hold onto it tightly. It serves nothing but to be an anchor. I can help you to release this pain.”

“Why let go of what fuels me? Why should I stop now?” The demonic cords of Jack ask. “I have eternity to do as I will. Once this body outgrows its usefulness, I’ll take another. I’ll keep killing. Then I’ll take another body, and keep killing.”

The dark laughter echoing distantly creeps down her back like someone walking on her grave. As she races, heart pounding, lungs heaving, goosebumps brush over her skin. Jack’s not out of reach, but Zenyatta’s too close to his possessed hands.

Genji snarls internally. The inwards noise almost causes her to stumble before Genji’s swift encouragement follows. He’s already plotting Reaper’s demise. If they can catch him in Jack’s body, this will be the end.

“Reaper—” Zenyatta’s furiously cut off.

“Death becomes you.”

The street opens up before Angela. She pushes her legs harder. Furiously, she darts through the darkness. Her feet pound on cement. The monastery looms ahead like a promise and a curse.

Through the stone gate, aesthetically reminiscing of central Asia architecture with towering arches and an open garden, Angela races up the steps to a square center building. Larger than life statues of ancient monks line the property. They look down upon her as she runs. The large, plain but polished wood doors stand vigilantly before she shoves them open.

She’s never been here, but she knows this is where Zenyatta lives with the other monks of the Shambali. Maybe not in this building specifically, but they are close by.

Her heart recoils for a moment. Angela blinks, registering that it was actually Genji shrinking back within her.

“Genji?” she gasps out. She can taste holy notes in the air.

_“It’s alright,”_ he quickly utters. Slowly, he steels himself, braced for holy fire. _“Just be careful where you walk. There is some ground I can’t tread in here and that affects your body as well. This place isn’t kind to demons.”_

Angela nods, and carefully steps further into the monastery.

She never visited the Shambali’s religious buildings before, even in all the time she became acquainted with Zenyatta. She didn’t think to visit, and Zenyatta never extended an offer. The tan-colored stone of the floor and walls brings a revered and ancient sense to her soul. 

Through an entryway of tan stone, Angela enters a larger space. Genji makes a disgruntled noise. He all but tries to press away from the middle of the building. In the open room, set dead in the center, a ring of gold is embedded into the floor. Several beautiful red flowers and wax candles burn here. Short red banners hang from the cone-like ceiling. In the very middle of the roof, moonlight spills in through crystal clear glass windows. Beautiful, glowing candles crowd table tops and corners, gathering warm light.

Past this ring on the floor, two figures stand. Zenyatta, calm and unphased, stands beside a table that’s been knocked over. Scattered on the ground are several orbs and braided rope, along with a few small pouches of spicy smelling powder and two wooden cups of oil. The liquid glistens in the candlelight.

Opposite to him, a good distance from the spilled holy items, Jack stands. Not him, but his body. In his hands, two glinting daggers stop Angela’s heart. Adrenaline surges through her veins. A past night of blood and near-death almost sends her bolting to Zenyatta’s side. She stays frozen.

Reaper slowly tilts Jack’s head to face Angela and sneers with a grin.

“You really are pathetic,” Jack’s demonic voice cuts through the small fires of candles.

The impression of bared fangs cuts through Angela’s center. The words aim for his blood, not hers. His entire being tenses. In her limbs, Angela readies herself with a darker force. She steps forward, giving the golden ring on the floor a wide berth. One glance at the strange, holy symbol causes Genji to recoil as if burned. Her eyes fall back on her friend’s body.

Jack’s in there, chained and choking on black smoke. She almost cries out his name.

Contorting his mouth with rage, Reaper angles himself to point one dagger at her. Zenyatta follows where he glares daggers. A moment of shock overtakes his expression. Not relief at seeing she answered his phone call. The exact opposite widens his eyes. Terror.

She meets his gaze, in full control. The dark spirit inside of her isn’t what he fears. Dawning realization loosens Zenyatta’s fright. He clenches his jaw, far from being free of tension.

How does he know, or even sense Genji within her? He must have feared the worst at the moment before taking in the blue of Angela’s eyes.

Grimly, Zenyatta nods in acceptance before facing Reaper. The problem at hand is holding two knives. Genji’s cautious whisper guides Angela forward, avoiding the braided rope and orbs dropped on the ground. A corner of the room sits at Jack’s backside. Lowering himself to the floor, as if to mediated, Zenyatta slowly begins to gather his items. Angela and Genji step forward, placing her body between the monk and her friend.

They can give Zenyatta a little time.

_“Don’t let him near you,”_ Genji warns.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says quietly.

She holds up her hands, palms showing, asking for resigning. Her attempt to talk him down while in the black smoke-filled room failed, but if there’s any chance of peaceful resolve, Angela will find it. For Jake’s, and Reaper’s sake.

At the words and gestures, the demon brandishes his weapons.

“Angela, you remember how this conversation ended before.” His taunting cuts her soul into ribbons. A shudder rolls through her, cold as a winter storm.

He looks her up and down. Jack’s blue-eyed gaze pierces through her rib cage, finding what she shelters.

“Will you always be at the whim of a demon?” his question rings like the unsheathing of a sword. “Are you content with your life and soul balancing in such dark hands?”

Genji snarls. Breathing out, Angela keeps her hands up. The shivers of his previous harm can’t take her now. She has to stay warm and brave, for Jack, for Genji.

“Enough, Reaper,” she pleads. “Let Jack go.”

The darkness in Jack’s face consumes any light she’s known within Jack.

“I am death. I am Reaper in life, and in the after.”

A wave of confusion washes over Genji from the exchange, sensing something has already transpired between them. The question forms on his tongue, but he never presents it. Angela keeps her stance steady, patient. Behind her, working furiously, Zenyatta takes up the bags of powder. A sharp, dry scent of spices touches the air.

In unison, Reaper and Genji hiss. Jack’s feet stumble farther back into the corner of the candlelight room, sent there by a holy force. A hand comes to her chest as Angela darts forward. A burning sensation flares throughout her nerves, as if someone dumped gasoline and then dropped a match into her veins.

“Genji?” she whispers, worried.

_“Keep Reaper there,”_ Genji utters, gathering himself after the hit of the holy smell.

Angela steps forward carefully. As the only thing standing between Reaper and the rest of the world, she stays on the balls of her feet. Coughing, Jack’s body slowly straightens. A dark rage boils in the eyes she knows aren’t his. Snarling, Reaper lifts one blade.

“I’m not going to hell until you come with me!”

_“ANGELA!”_

Reaper lunges like a beast. Striking down, the large blade narrowly misses her chest as Angela jumps back. The air swooshes underneath the strike. She almost loses her footing when he slashes wildly. The pull of her limbs this time is cool and distantly defensive, Genji working desperately.

Her heartbeat accelerates. A voice in the back of her mind, the one that works endlessly to stay alive, tells her to run. Her entire soul begs to retreat.

The silent threat on Jack’s teeth bares itself. Reaper slashes wildly, throwing all of his force into each dagger without control. Angela is a caged bird after a fox broke into her home. She doges and ducks, moving just a second faster than the knives. One swipe almost clips her shoulder blade. Genji’s slight pull backward sends her reeling, but out of harm’s reach. Each jump out of harm’s way, Genji is with her. The demon alongside her soul acts as more adrenaline covering her limbs, moving her with a supernatural boost.

Reaper slips. The demon opens Jack’s eyes widely, to a degree of insanity. Hatred so dense that it darkens Jack’s irises startles Angela. A growl lost of any of Jack’s tones rips out of his throat. Two knives, bloodless, shake in his intense grasp.

Angela’s heart stops. Genji freezes.

“Die, die, die!”

The demon jumps, slamming his body weight onto Angela. They fall together. Her backside slams into the tan stone. Her head bounces off the stone ground, rattling her brain inside her skull. Genji screams her name. A glint of silver in the candlelight brings her back to a sharp awareness. Pinned underneath Jack’s body, Angela gasps.

She throws her arms up. Her hands catch Jack’s wrists, pushing back with adrenaline and Genji’s dark power. The knives shake, inches from cutting through bones and flesh. Reaper is a nightmare. He pushes down fervently. A being made up of a terrifying mask of bloodlust and pure hatred. A cry of struggling and fear leaps out of Angela’s mouth. Her arms aren’t crafted for strength. Genji’s strength doesn’t falter, but it is bound by her physical capabilities.

A frantic fear bleeds out of Genji. Between the knives inching closer to her heart, and Reaper’s crazed hunger for death, a bloody end looms. The race of her pulse spikes. She’s been here before. Genji’s burning energy brushes against her soul. The very point of one dagger cuts an inch into her skin over her sternum.

If she dies, Genji will be forsaken to oblivion.

“Genji…” she struggles to breathe out.

“Angela!”

The scent of dried, sharp spices fills the air again. Reaper falters backward, raising the daggers like a shield. Genji recoils sharply, but Angela doesn’t slow. Snatching back his wrists, she shoves him with all of her might. They tumble for a second. Pinning him under her knees, Angela holds down his hands.

As both demons wither back, the smell intoxicates the air as Zenyatta throws dark spice over Jack’s face. A demonic shout breaks through the air. In agony, Genji retreats from the smallest touches of the dark powder splashed onto her skin. Her soul is the only barrier Genji can place between himself and the orbs Zenyatta quickly sets in a circle around Jack’s head. The monk works quickly. The braided rope falls just above Jack’s head. His body convulses violently. Her weight on his person barely keeps him contained.

The more holy items surrounding Jack’s body, the more Genji struggles within her. He wordlessly, bravely, suffers. This is the only way to rid the world of Reaper. The burning becomes her own agony, but Angela clenches her jaw and keeps Jack’s hands pinned.

“Hold on, Genji,” she cries as Zenyatta places the final orb.

“Go,” Zenyatta orders.

Finally, Angela lets go. Her body flings itself away from the exorcism on both Angela’s and Genji’s command. She falls to the ground. Slowly picking herself up as Genji within her no longer burns, she looks back to her friend.

A terrible sound, something that could only come from the darkest pits of the earth, unleashes from Jack’s mouth. It grates her eardrums. His body seizing so violently, Angela fears of the internal damage. Zenyatta maneuvers himself to stand at Jack’s feet. He brings his hands together, fingers steepled as he bows his head. A holy light she never could have seen before envelopes the monk. On his forehead, dots lining in a three by three square begin glowing blue.

It is only because of the spirit intertwined with her own soul. The light becomes too much. It burns. Crying out softly in pain, Angela lifts her arms to block some of the light. Genji barely clings to her own soul, nearly defeated. From what little she can spy, golden arms of spiritual essence materialize behind Zenyatta’s back. Each pair reaches out, diving into Jack’s chest, grabbing the darkness within.

What if he kills Jack?

Genji manages to softly brush against her soul in the burning holiness. She blinks away from the blinding light. The holiness doesn’t sting as much as before.

_“He won’t,”_ Genji whispers, confident. _“He’s too desperate to have a body.”_

The light comes to a blindly white state. Maybe it’s because she’s mortal, or because she carries a demon inside of her, but Angela witnesses the gold hands ripping a smoking ball of blackness from Jack’s chest. His back arches painfully before falling back against the tan stone, motionless. Angela desperately searches for signs of life. His chest rising with a breath. His eyes opening. In her frantic need to know, she somehow fights the urge to rush forward to find Jack’s pulse.

Genji. Genji will get burned.

The blackness swarms, growling and hissing with demonic cords. The golden hands contain the corrupted soul like a precious cage. Slowly, the blue dots on Zenyatta’s forehead brighten.

“Pass into the iris.”

A screech. A flash of golden light. Angela looks away alongside Genji. The flare burns his essence, trickling the holy fire into her heart. She clutches her chest, physically attempting to shield Genji.

Then, the world is muted candlelight and silence.

And less dark.

Lifting her head, the sight before her is a soft, white cotton dream. Genji slowly dissolves his rage within her toward the demon. The being who tried to destroy her life twice.

He’s gone. Reaper’s gone.

The monk lowers his hands, a mortal man. He slowly kneels down. Among the holy artifacts, Jack breathes raggedly, his bruised eyelids closed but finally resting.

“Jack,” Angela hardly dares speak out loud.

Kindly, Zenyatta sets the golden orbs and spices and braided rope farther away. On her tentative hands and knees, Angela crawls to Jack’s side. Genji sighs within her. It echoes through her bones.

“Jack?” she whispers, easing his head to rest on her lap. She slips her hands along his temples, looking down at his tired, darker expression. His eyelids stay closed, but his chest moves up and down at a steady pace.

_“He’ll be okay.”_

Half sobbing, Angela looks up. Zenyatta carefully kneels over him, sweeping for any last traces of the demon upon his body.

“Is he really gone?” her voice shakes and trembles while asking.

Solemnly, Zenyatta dips his head.

“Reaper chose his path, and no one else could direct him from it.”

Gone. He’s not set into any other place. He doesn’t exist, in any other sense or concept. Truly into oblivion, he goes. The bone-white face will haunt her dreams, but not her waking days.

Angela breathes out. Her worn-out heart beats alongside Genji. The lack of remorse he entertains isn’t frightening, but rather, unfortunately, deserved. He settles within her. The dark thing that goes bump in the night is cast away.

Touching Jack’s face, he shivers slightly underneath Angela’s touch. He’ll be even colder and more afraid when he wakes up. But, he’s safe. He’s free of heavy chains and black smoke.

Angela lets out a slow breath of air from her lungs and hugs Jack’s shoulders.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela and Genji finally come home to an empty house, but there’s still something Angela must discuss with Genji.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I would like to wrap this up with a neat little bow and a ‘happily ever after’, we’re not quite there yet. There’s some more suffering to get through first.

The home they both call their own stands in the rising sunlight. Dawn feels strange, unearthly. It seeps into Angela’s bones and touches Genji’s spirit with a tentative hand. She walks to the door. A brief, almost surreal memory of sitting on this very porch with Jack just last morning hits her. Exhaustion weighs down her body like iron.

When she steps inside, Genji sighs, losing some tension that’s outlined his essence since they left.

She closes her eyes, standing perfectly still. In a similar grace to the fading night, Genji slips out of her on tiptoes and silent steps.

The air becomes charged with cool energy. A breath leaves her lungs, lighter with the new, and almost empty space inside of her rib cage. Funny. It’s strange to not have him within her. It brings to Angela’s mind when she swam in a pool as a child, and she had long since adjusted to the pressure of the water on her chest. Getting out of the water, losing Genji from within, her lungs are adjusted to the past situation. Now it feels too light and too heavy all at once.

“Angela,” he whispers in her ear instead of inside her heart. “Let’s go to bed.”

Easing open her eyelids, she beholds a vision of sweet dreams. The sunlight filters in through the kitchen window. Genji stands, dark and familiar and cool and comforting. His red irises fill her with something that Reaper can’t harm. The faint smell of the house she’s grown used to swirls in the air. All the aspects she loves and knows come together.

They’re home.

Wordlessly, Genji holds his arms out. His dark person waits as Angela steps into his embrace, making a quiet gasp when he sweeps her off her feet. Holding her against his chest, Genji descends the stairs. His cool person presses gently against her cheek. The lovely hold he keeps her in reminds of days before. He carried her then, too.

Her heart isn’t so heavy anymore.

Her bedroom is still dysfunctional. Genji doesn’t slow as he takes her to the guest bedroom. It will do for now.

He stops at the bed. Gently, he lowers her onto the comforter, slipping out from underneath her like an autumn wind. Angela has no thought to throw on clean pajamas or wash her hair. Since it’s a new day, she has work later this evening. She can rest before she’s needed. Genji knows this as well, for he promises to wake her when the time comes.

As he gets onto the bed beside her, Angela studies his face. The demon is still stark white, with red markings and scarlet horns and crimson eyes. The same. Her Genji. Her love. After the last few days, she knows more than he’s ever let on about his struggle with being damned.

Angela wraps her arms around him first, pulling her against him so their legs can intertwine. The shape of a small smile touches her hair. Genji leans closer. As they lie together, he brushes her bangs away from her eyes.

“It’s okay to rest,” he murmurs, “It’s just us.”

That’s all she needs to close her eyes and give in to the blissful escape.

As she sleeps, Jack remains with the Shambali, at Zenyatta’s insistence. He needs to clean Jack from the darkness Reaper brought within him. He assured Angela he would call her the moment Jack woke, and would stay at his side until she could see him. She was so worried, it took all of Zenyatta’s patience to reassure her to return home with Genji and get rest.

Thankfully, Jack’s not alone in this. He’ll have endless support and Angela’s understanding.

Two braids of golden rope still sit inside the house. In the basement, the scattered golden orbs also remind of Jack’s well-meaning but foolish mistake.

When Genji apologetically wakes her for work, Angela drags herself out of bed and gets ready. She’s always had a bad habit of drinking too much caffeine, but as she walks out the door, it’s all that keeps her together.

The hospital brings back sensibility and purpose. Her patients allow an outlet in which she unleashes her care and concern. Helping others lessens the slightly empty chill in between her rib. Paperwork is gratefully mind-numbing and occupies her mind. Cups of coffee stack as the night goes on. She’s no stranger to the night shift, but she buzzes with caffeine and the lack of sleep it can’t entirely cover-up.

A few comments from her nurses have her stumbling. The bruises underneath her eyes are especially dark. She seems a little scared, or on edge. One even said she looks like she’s seen a ghost. A biting laugh leaves her mouth at how unknowingly true the statement is. However, Angela waves off their worry with the excuse of the supposed sickness she had that Jack used as a cover story.

Her shift ends, and she’s all but running to the monastery. Zenyatta’s phone call caught her during a break. In a breath of relief, he gave the news that Jack is awake and doing well. He wants to see her.

Oh, Jack. She knows how terrifying and disorienting everything must seem.

He’s in one of the farther buildings behind what she now knows is called the sanctum. A ghostly chill runs down her space when she thinks of the inside. Zenyatta meets her. A few other monks and nuns pass by, dressed in a similar fashion to Zenyatta. He takes her to a small, almost hut-like building. A modest, circular room shelters Jack as he rests on a bed. He sits upright, gazing out the window before their entrance echoes.

He turns his head, bruised eyes meeting her. Angela stands in his gaze, drinking in the blue color untainted by darkness or revenge. He looks hagrid, showing his age in a way she has yet to witness. He’s always been strong and unwavering. Now, he looks old and tired. His white hair is even appropriate.

“Jack, are you alright?” she asks as she walks across the floor. She sits on the edge of the bed. This close, she finds the slight shiver working through his entire body. It’s small, but the tremble conflicts with his firm nod.

Zenyatta quietly stands, giving them room but also standing by in case he’s needed.

“beh, just ripping myself a new one for letting him get me,” he grumbles, in his own voice.

“What were you thinking? Whatever you were trying to do, it was very stupid,” Angela says bluntly, but not unkindly.

“I know,” he exasperates as if he’s told himself that a hundred times. “He was still in your house after everything he did to you. I couldn’t stand it for a second longer, and the monk was taking his sweet time. The orbs worked to get him out of you. I just wanted to get him out of there forever.”

His sincerity doesn’t excuse the explanation, but a thickness building in her throat makes it a little harder to answer immediately.

Of course, he would. Despite having seen Reaper’s abilities, Jack had to face the monster with guns a blazing, or rather orbs a-glowing.

“I’m sorry,” Angela lowers her head. “That never should have happened to you.”

“No, it shouldn’t have happened to either of us.” Jack pauses, then tentatively asks, “Did you feel this cold… after?”

Too cold, as if she could never be warm again. Now her hands are steady and heated.

“Yes, but you’ll get warm,” is her promise. “It takes a little time, and don’t rush yourself, but you’ll feel better.”

Jack holds her gaze. In the small space, their two souls waver like candles which once burned like bonfires. They’ll return full force given time. However, they both tremble, and start at every bump that can’t immediately be explained.

They both understand. It’s not so frightening alone.

They sit together and try to find something easier to talk about.

*

Early afternoon guides Angela and Zenyatta around the shrine building, taking stone paths lined with garden beds of white mountain flowers. How the flora flourishes here, Angela can’t answer. Everything from the tan stone buildings to the quiet, peaceful garden that connects everything with footpaths create tranquility. It’s a marvel that everyone hasn’t come here to find peace like it’s a liquid in a bottle.

Jack agreed to stay one more day, just to have the monks and nuns watch over him. Angela thinks it’s because the spirituality here eases him, even if he’s not entirely devoted to the idea of the Shambali.

“How are you doing, Dr. Ziegler?” Zenyatta asks as they take a curve in the path.

“I’m better,” she gives carefully. The best analysis can only be given if she’s entirely truthful, and Zenyatta is subtly examining her. “Genji helps me get through the worst of it, but it’s easier to breathe inside our house now. I know this anxiety will disappear, eventually.”

But not from her nightmares.

“I am glad to hear that,” he says warmly. “I am here for you if you need me.”

“There’s something I had hoped to ask you about,” Angela stops in the path, facing the monk. He lowers his fold hands, waiting. The sunlight on his dark skin makes a rich complexion. His dark irises, inseparable from the black of his pupils, shine intelligently.

“Is there anything you can do to give Genji peace?”

The question is loaded with shards and pieces that cut and mangle. She has to ask. She has to know. If there’s a slight glimmer of giving Genji a true resting place, she will pursue it to the ends of the earth.

She can’t leave him behind after sixty years, forsaken to another hundred of isolation and damnation.

Zenyatta breathes in deliberately. Slowly, he steeples his fingers and meets her gaze.

“I have been pondering this very matter heavily over our time together, and I believe there is hope for him.”

Her heart jumpstarts, leaping out of her chest as she unconsciously leans forward.

“What is it?”

Zenyatta considers his next words.

“Demons are souls that have been poisoned with strong, negative emotions,” Zenyatta begins. “They are still souls, and human.”

“Okay,” she follows along.

“I believe if Genji were to let go of his rage and hatred, towards himself and the one who ended his life, he would be able to move on to the place after.”

Let go, and find peace. Angela stands in the slit of light descending onto their intertwined souls. But, it sounds easier said than done. His anger is immeasurable, growing and changing like a ravenous beast. To undo all that wrath from all of his time wandering his own home, trapped and forgotten, isn’t a simple matter of cutting a loose string.

“How can we help him do that?” she asks softly.

Zenyatta lifts his chin, reflecting Angela’s determined but restraint nature.

“It will be a long, grueling process, and very difficult for him,” he speaks. “We will have to have patience.”

“I’ll do whatever is needed,” Angela breathes out.

Just to give him peace.

The monk nods, noting her burning will.

“I would like to start by speaking with him on a daily basis if you will allow it.”

Angela doesn’t have to think when she answers.

“Yes.”

*

Genji paces without footsteps, sweeping back and forth in an invisible wind. Last night, empty of all souls, especially the sunshine he craved, he couldn’t settle down like dust on the floorboards. He never questioned before how much she fills his nights. He wants so desperately to run his fingers through Angela’s white gold hair. He wants to sway across the living room in the company of only themselves. Alone together, at last.

She said she may be late. Early afternoon taunts him with another killer waving a dagger in her face, but he squashes those wild thoughts quickly. One taste of the outside world and he’s all too aware of how much more is out there, including evil.

He wants that peace back. The gentle presence she brought with her when she first stepped into the house. It was stretched and torn by Reaper’s claws but he’s been destroyed. Her peace is already re-kindling itself.

A flame of hatred licks Genij’s center at any thought of the demon. His ending was a long time coming, and only the monk got to him first.

That’s another thing he must give to Zenyatta. Through the hints of dispelling him from his own home to keeping him from Angela after the first moments of her freedom from Reaper, he is still, begrudgingly, the one who made it possible to save her.

Genji would never admit this outloud, but he is in debt to the monk.

His invisible pacing stops when the front door swings open. Angela, still wired on coffee and somehow sporting even deeper bruises underneath her eyes, gently calls his name. He answers, materializing before her. He barely senses the burning, holy energy behind her as he wraps his arms around her waist.

She hugs him deeply, leaning into his chest for a long heartbeat.

“Hello, Angela,” he murmurs against her cheek.

He feels her smile.

“Hey, Genji.”

She loosens her arms, stepping back while keeping a hand on his lower back. Genji watches her movement. The coffee is still giving her stability but her focus isn’t on their reunion, but rather, Zenyatta.

He humbly steps inside. He closes the door behind him, calmly facing the couple as if it were a marriage counselor session rather than a mortal and demon pressed into each other’s side. An immediate slant digs into Genji’s brow. His red eyes narrow in suspicion on Zenyatta’s new necklace of golden orbs.

Finally. He can take those few cursed items out of his house and leave them be for a time.

“Genji,” Angela starts, holding his gaze with a shine that brings a nervous fluttering to his center. “Zenyatta and I have been discussing a few things.”

Her arm tightens around him with a tentiave hope.

“He thinks there’s a way to save you.”

The words stun him, shoving him into a motionless state that locks onto her gaze. She spoke of such things. In her nature, she swore to find a way to give him relief. Genji couldn’t give in to that belief, despite how capable he knows her to be.

But this? This is ridiculous. He would have laughed in demonic tones if it wasn’t her suggesting it.

“Angela…” Genji searches for a delicate way to deliver his reality. He doesn’t have hope. He’s already dead. It’s what makes him a demon. A soft place that she’s created within him surges with her devotion to the notion, but it’s misplaced.

“Genji,” Zenyatta addresses him.

Molding his expression to iron and shadow, Genji looks down at the monk. Since he first showed himself and spoke with Zenyatta, especially before the exorcism, it was out of desperation. That was in no way an invitation to approach him without great purpose.

He would disappear from his sights if he wasn’t so starved for Angela’s anchoring touched. Her fingers sprawl lightly across his lower spine. Her palm acts as a candle, heating up his cool demeanor.

The monk holds his gaze boldly.

“I would like to have sessions to discuss and address what keeps you lingering in this existence. If you are willing and able, we can strip away the chains you tether to yourself and give you torment. It would be difficult—”

“No.”

Angela starts against him, jerking her head to take in his cold expression. Zenyatta simply closes his mouth. Patient, as always.

“Genji,” Angela tries. Her fingers curl against his back as if to squeeze sense into him.

“Now leave,” Genji lowers his voice. A wave of chilling air sweeps through the small entry. It takes more restraint then he cares to admit to not sweep Angela away and somewhere no other soul can intrude upon.

For one moment, he wants to rest with her.

“Genji, you’re not giving him a chance to speak,” Angela attempts to chastise, but it’s more of a plea.

“Take time to consider it,” Zenyatta calmly takes on the arrangement without so much as blinking. “This is your decision, Genji.”

The last part stalls Angela’s tongue. She glances at Genji as he radiates a chilly fall breeze. The audacity of the monk has reached peak volumes. Cooly, he watches Angela see Zenyatta outsided and exchange a few apologies before returning back into the house. 

The door closes behind her. She looks at him. The disappointment in her blue eyes almost makes him crumple. She stands in the coolness of their home.

“Why did you say no?” she asks steadily.

“You can’t heal a wound on a corpse, Angela,” Genji does everything to keep his voice level, “I’m not one of your patients you can sew up and give a few weeks to recover.”

She visibly takes the brunt of the comment. Cursing himself, Genji clutches his hands into fists and shakes his head. He forces his fingers to loosen, one by one. More carefully, he parts his lips.

“I don’t want to entertain that useless hope, neither do I want you to give too much for it. I’ve suffered enough. As selfishly and cowardly as it may be, I can’t willing do that to myself only for it to fail.”

“Genji, this is self-defeating!” she cries.

He stops himself from lashing out, containing his words until they compress into collapsing stars within his throat. She doesn’t understand what she’s asking him to do. She hasn’t seen the walls of this house for a hundred years. She hasn’t dwelled in absolute solitude, finding ways to have less consciousness just to not dwell on painful memories.

She’s trying her best, but there’s nothing to try for. As much as it eats him up inside, he can’t lay that on her, and bring even more worry to what could be joyful.

“I just want to take our time together and make it good, so that when you’re not here anymore, I have something bright to fall back on,” he confesses. It leaves him in a weak breath, baring a tiny glimpse of what he’s terrified of, and unable to run away from.

Her eyes widen. The blue of her irises wavers with pools of tears. She brings a hand to her mouth, attempting to cover up the quiver of her bottom lip.

Genji curses silently. This is exactly what he wished to spare her of.

He steps towards her. The rippling effect to her soul lets out rings of anguish. He takes her face in his hands, brushing away one tear that spilled onto her cheek.

“Angela—”

“Genji, I can’t watch you give up on yourself,” she fiercely breathes in a surprisingly quiet voice. He straightens slightly.

Her hands slip around his fingers, clutching them to her heart. The beat thrums against his knuckles. Loud and determined.

“I can’t save you,” she begins. Genji opens his mouth but she pushes on. “I can’t, but I can help you. Zenyatta and I both can. You can only save yourself.”

The words echo, chipping away at the certain little block of steel he’s crafted ever since he was conceived into darkness. It threatens his factual idea.

But he can’t be saved. He’s a demon.

“If you let Zenyatta, and me, help, you can become better. You already are. I’ve seen it,” she presses fervently, blinking down tears that aren’t so sad anymore. “You can keep getting better and better. You just have to allow yourself to hope.”

She lowers her gaze to their hands. She presses his fingers against her chest, clutched in her tight grasp. He wants to hold her and forget any word synonymous with grief but stays at her attention. Bowed, she murmurs gently.

“I’ve had patients with very low chances of surviving, asking for difficulty surgeries that would, in only the best scenarios, save them, but they always took it. They did it because that chance, no matter if it failed or succeeded, was something they could do. It gave them hope. Even when it didn’t work as they wanted it to, they were still in the same state as before. It hurt to hope, but it was still something to do against despair.”

But… he’s… a demon.

She lifts her gaze.

“I hate to put it like this, but Genji, if this doesn’t work, you will only back in the same place you are now.”

Her thumb runs over his knuckles. Her warm skin bleeds into his coolness, chasing after doubts and second guesses. He wants to tug away and retreat. He doesn’t want to face another heartbeat, especially when it concerns existence with her, but she’s penetrated his already dark center. Her light, her hope, fills him as it did when she first reached out to touch his face.

He lifts her hands. Slowly, gently, as if this is their goodbye, he presses featherlight kisses to each knuckle along with her hands. His lips linger against her skin. He tastes honeysuckle and compassion that no one else has bothered to give him.

She holds his gaze when he finally lifts his head. Her blue eyes still hold water, but it doesn’t spill out like before.

“I can only promise to try.”

Because he’s a demon, but he’s in love with her.

Angela sighs with relief. Still clutching her hands, Genji kisses the back of them, left, then right. He breathes in her scent. Hope treads lightly within him, a stranger to his lands.

He tentatively lets it walk with him.

*

Since Angela first came to know Genji, she didn’t know what an ending for him would be. He already had a violent death that stole years away from him. Centuries flew past, losing meaning with each one. Somehow finding peace, a real place to rest, was impossible.

Until now.

As the days slowly adjust to the rhythm they once had before, change collects the air with fall leaves. Random shivers don’t attack Angela as often. She and Jack share late night conversations when neither can sleep, plagued with chains and black smoke. Angela works during the day, coming back to greet Zenyatta and Genji at the end of one of their sessions.

It’s not always a cheerful scene when she walks into their home.

Like opening an already infected wound, Genji festers and lashes out more often than not. Zenyatta’s approach is gentle, but he can only lead Genji so far. What they hope to achieve can only be upheld at both ends.

Genji struggles.

After a week of his time with Zenyatta, he doesn’t materialize for one entire evening. The air buzzes with tangile tension. Angela doesn’t pry, but she hates standing alone in the kitchen while feeling helpless to sooth the welts of rage.

He needs time, and she needs to be patient.

As she readies for bed, Zenyatta’s small summary of what they focused on during their time together lingers in her mind. He tried to talk to Genji about his death. Her brow crinkles at the very notion as if forcing him to relive one of his most traumatic experiences could somehow be cathartic. Calmly, Zenyatta reassured that focusing on all aspects of what led to his damnation will aid Genji in addressing his anger, and when the time comes, in letting it go.

She sits down at the vanity desk. Outside, the world is dark and cool. Orange leaves pepper the landscape with invitations of warm drinks and pumpkin flavored treats.

Slowly, she takes out her earrings. Her fingers reach for her necklace when a quiet knock echoes on the door.

“Come in,” she says, curious.

The door opens, squeaking slightly as an invisible force pushes it. Angela faces Genji’s dark form stepping inside. The bedroom is still theirs. The mattress was dragged back up from the basement. Every piece of cloth that could fit into the washing machine was cleaned twice over. Thankfully, Angela never experienced time upon it while it remained in the basement.

His expression is controlled, but tainted with heaviness Angela wants to lift into her hands. Just to take a miniscule of the weight. The blood red spikes protruding from his shoulders are slightly slumped. His eyes are wrinkled with weariness. The shine of red in Genji’s eyes land upon her with a tentative, tender need.

“May I?” he asks so softly she almost misses it.

“Of course,” she smiles gently.

He walks to where she sits. Slipping behind her chair, Angela leans back as dark hands brush against her neck. He sweeps her hair aside. The trace of his fingertips along the nape of her neck sends shivers of a different kind through her. At her backside, she can see Genji in the very corner of her vision. Gently, he undoes the clasp of her necklace. Slipping it from around her, he leans over and gently sets it on the table.

She looks to the mirror. She’s the only one in view. Angling herself, Angela turns her legs to face Genji as he looks down. His bowed head hangs with iron and stone. She reaches out to touch his arm but Genji lowers himself to his knees. Like the cold enveloping a tree in the summer, turning it orange and yellow, dark hands gather her own in her lap. His torso presses against her legs, warming her with something supernatural.

His eyes lift. Red as the somber blood moon, he holds her gaze.

“I wasn’t the best person when I was alive,” Genji says in a voice above a whisper. His fingers tense around her hands. “I misspent a lot of my life with frivolous, swallow pursuits. I didn’t care for anything meaningful that extends beyond a night of entertainment.”

Her heart throbs, fearing the direction he’s taking this. Her sealed lips tremble. The cool air to his person isn’t so cold anymore, or thick with anger.

“My family was oriented around business; a business I didn’t care for,” his words revealing the slightest struggle behind his guard. “My brother strived towards such duties and attempted to get me to do the same. I refused. At every turn, every reprimand, I continued on with my own pleasures. He…”

Genji stops. The strain in his dark arms gives away how much he spares her hands from his own burning agony. A deep indent makes its home in Angela’s brow. She holds on to him. She is only an anchor, tethering him while he rides the crashing waves above.

“Hanzo,” he painfully breathes out. The name alone curls the air with loathing. Behind it, a mild scent of pained betrayal laces the space. “He… told himself it was his duty, and his burden.”

Angela has no siblings. For a lot of her life, she worked with colleagues and peers as she earned her doctorate. The death of her parents when she was a child isn’t a secret from him. She grew up at a pace that a lot of others couldn’t keep.

The closest she can image to Genji’s state is if her mother or father had taken her life, but the thought repulses itself from her mind.

It’s too painful and impossible to imagine.

Is that what Genji thought, before…?

“My home wasn’t like this,” Genji’s voice lowers. “It was different, decorated by my mother’s hand. It was where I came to rest and see my father. I walked in late one night and Hanzo was kneeling down, waiting for me. His sword laid before him on the ground, uncovered…”

The anguish in his vocal cords could pluck the most sorrowful melody. Genji squeezes his eyes close, bowing over their clasped hands without strength. Angela leans closer. Desperately, she searches for a cure, for a silver instrument and the trauma, but there is nothing she can heal. He must break out what haunts his insides, to cleanse himself of the pain.

Angela holds his hands tightly.

“I said his name. He stayed silent as if I was already a ghost!” Genji snarls, startling her heart. “He looked at me. I didn’t want to hear another lecture from him about what I should and shouldn’t be doing. I turned my back on my brother.”

Tension, like death, creeps around his shoulders. Genji breathes out like a drowning man.

“He struck me down from behind. I fell to the floor of our house in blood and fear. The agony overwhelmed me, dipped me in acid and knives, again and again. I still called his name.”

The thickness in Angela’s throat overwhelms her.

“I don’t know how long I stayed there, or if it even was a long time. I kept seeing red. I drifted between blackness and the pain,” his voice breaks. “I was alone. I was dying and scared, and I still called for my brother in my garbled, bloody voice.”

“Genji…” Angela whispers.

In her heart, a protective, roaring fierceness blooms. All at once she sees why Genji was hopeless at finding peace. She herself can’t forgive his brother for what he did. She doesn’t know how to show him that path.

“I don’t know if I can forgive him, but I don’t want to haunt this house forever.”

Genji clutches her hands tighter and lifts his head. He leans onto her lap. The demon dangles from an invisible string inches away from snapping under his agony. His red horns, his stark white face, and shadowy form was conceived from that one night.

“I know you can, Genji,” she says in a voice so quiet she’s afraid he might not hear her. “You don’t have to exist in this pain anymore.”

Pain. The self-inflicted wound of rage, and the damage of hatred for the past. All circling what a brother should have never done to his own. She wants him free of that. If it means forgiving Hanzo, Genji has the strength to do so.

He doesn’t speak. He stays halfway curled on her lap, clinging to any touch of her warmth. She gives it willingly. She loosens her hands. Slowly, his arms fall around her lower waist, his embrace in need of relief from the internal ache.

Angela softly strokes his black hair with her fingertips. A humming murmur of comfort leaves her lips, taking every ounce of his weakness and shielding it from the rest of the world. He trembles against her. The constant want and fear of love send him to an unguarded place. He gives himself into her hands.

There is no thought but to comfort what was hurting for too many years. It is only a small bandage on a gaping wound, but Angela lays herself in the mess and holds him together. Genji cracks wide open. He breathes out quiet apologies and pleas to not leave him. His terrified words break her heart. Softly in her aspect, she shushes him, promising that it will be alright. Her kisses dot his temple and the space around his horns. In his hair and on his stark white skin, she presses her love with her lips. Her fingers rub up and down his back. Underneath her palms, the demon falters.

One day, he will know peace.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Zenyatta’s sessions continue with Genji, he begins to change, from within, and from without.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for taking the time to read to the end of this series. It means a lot to me. I hope the story of a demon and a doctor being in love is spooky enough for Halloween day, and suited to end on the note you’re about to read. Enjoy!

After that night, something changes. 

When she returns home the following day, Angela greets Zenyatta and Genji in the living room. The demon is perched on the edge of the couch. He’s only ever done that with her, before now. Across from him, the monk calmly uncrosses his legs as he gets to his feet. An air of surprise circles them. Glances to the clock betray how time passed them by unknowingly, and their conversation was prematurely halted.

She tries to persuade them to not let her interrupt, but Zenyatta insists it’s best to close for the day. There’s much Genji must ponder on.

Genji stays as he is. Politely, Angela walks Zenyatta to the front door to confirm that today went well. What she could only describe as a proud affection circles him. He sees tomorrow being just as promising.

The light flutter of her heart fills with warm blood and hope. She walks back to Genji while stepping on sunshine. He watches her calmly. A thoughtful expression takes over his features. The openness around his eyes sees daybreak after a night of running through darkness

“How was it?” she asks, sitting beside him. She runs her hand along his arm.

A beat passes in silence.

“I don’t hate the monk entirely,” he gives, then flashes a grin.

Her heart ignites, burning with heat that’s only sparked by her love. Angela smiles back at him. The world isn’t so dark anymore. In his eyes, the scarlet color isn’t so deep.

The days continue on in this manner. She can’t count the hours Zenyatta pours into Genji, giving him every possible enlightenment that a proper student of the Shambali would receive. Farther into the fall season, Zenyatta casually refers to Genji as his student. Pride blooms inside of Angela and sobers Genji. 

Genji no longer faces an enemy. Rather, he’s learning to walk a path that’s rough and dark but leading to a better place. His daily sessions with Zenyatta are chances to prove his dedication, to reinforce the one night he was weak in her arms.

He never spoke much of his past life to her. Angela wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t bring himself to speak about it, or didn’t want to burden her with his grief. As he slowly gives her more glimpses of the mortal man he was before, she comes to understand that it stems from a sad mixture of both.

In the evenings, they recount their very different days. Work is as active as it’s always been for Angela. Her hands are busy but put to good use. Genji teaches her the wisdom Zenyatta gave him, of being greater than what threatens to drag him down. The talks inspire her. His midnight river voice moves her to improve herself in a way to keep pace with him. It’s a happy scent that fills both their lungs and they breathe in deeply.

Night witnesses their intimate moments. Comfort lays in their arms as thick as the blankets Angela wraps around herself. Genji tucks her carefully in on the cooler nights. He still presses against her, holding her against the worst of nightmares.

A dead dove with its heart ripped out tries to fly away. Black claws reach for her lips, pulling and tearing every which way. She can’t even scream before the thick, cold chains drag her into a room of pitch-black smoke. When she can’t breathe, Genji’s hand coaxes her out of the vision paralyzing her body. He murmurs into her hair. Breathe. Breathe. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you again.

She tries to be strong, but she shakes like a leaf when her brain imagines the bone like face hovering in the doorway, waiting to take her body again. As gentle as rain, Genji lays himself between her and the nightmares. His dark hands cradle her until sunrise, or sweet exhaustion forces her back to sleep.

Nightmares don’t just follow her. It’s two steps forward and one step back with Genji. One day is perfect. His eyes don’t mimic the color of blood so harshly. Zenyatta’s words are a happy mantra until they aren’t enough. Until rage sweeps him up in a flash flood of vengeance and Genji curses his brother. He wants revenge. He wants to act violently. Only her shushing voice will allow him to calm himself.

She stares at her hands, begging them to scoop out his agony. Her palms only lay on his backside. Her fingers only card through his hair. Her fingertips only trace the red markings on his face, and smile when he looks to her with the doubt that what she sees is beautiful.

He’s still struggling, but it’s on stumbling steps that he surges forward with.

Jack visits often. Angela and him share looks that are ringed with dark circles of flesh and weary wisdom. Sometimes, he’ll call her in the middle of the night, asking to make sure she’s alright. She reassures him, mostly to make sure that he’s alright, too.

On the first day that snow falls, Angela spends a cold night in plenty of layers and persuading Genji to lay down with her. He’s hyper-aware of winter. He hesitates to touch her as if she’ll gain frostbite. They end up speaking of kinder things. Genji sits a little ways away from her, remarking of a summer he and Hanzo spent playing through the cherry blossom trees. Angela reaches across the mattress to take his hand.

He’s doing better. His voice doesn’t growl when he says his brother’s name.

In the darkness, a quiet rumble works through her stomach. On a whim, Angela suggests they visit the gas station diner. She’s not going to get a good amount of sleep tonight anyways. Shivers race often down her back, and it’s not from the white powder outside.

He tries to tell her no, it’s not a good idea, but hunger shines too brightly in his red eyes.

They leave in her car this time. In her chest, two spirits rest side by side like the split halves of a heart.

The waitress with the nametag of ‘Lena’ greets them, both startled and excited at her reappearance.

“Never thought I’d see you again, love! How are you doing?”

As Angela sits down, Genji takes the steering wheel. When the waitress looks down at her body’s settled position, she blinks. Genji smiles back at her with her mouth.

“I’ve gotten some help,” he says strangely in her voice. Neither of them can get use to it.

“…That’s great to hear…” she pauses, but decides against pressing the issue of a seemingly different person in one body.

Genji orders a different meal. The food is far from gourmet but he dives into it with a zeal Angela smiles at. He avoids coffee, just for the hopeful sake of her getting at least a few hours of sleep before she must head to work. A sugary soda is a little less harmful to that idea. He empties three cups.

When the waitress checks in on the strangely solitary woman, Genji makes polite conversation. Like a breath of fresh air, she responds energetically. Angela and Genji quickly find her to be a chatterbox, but Genji doesn’t mind the additional company. He does only talk to a maximum of three people. Angela’s quietly grateful for the young woman’s freckled and bright expression.

Lena, as she insists Genji call her, goes to the cadet academy during the day, and works nights. Her pilot’s license is all she dreams of. It’s not easy to balance, but she sleeps when she can without getting caught and keeps going on.

Genji gives her a small smile. Quietly, he offers sincere hope for her to succeed. Tilting her head, Lena laughs in a trickling echo.

“We’ll both get to where we want to go, love,” she promises with a wink.

The waitress gives Genji a to-go cup of the soda and wishes to see him soon. Angela nudges Genji internally, very much enjoying his new friend.

“She has no idea,” he mutters as he walks her body out the door.

_“No, but she doesn’t have to,”_ Angela says kindly.

Returning to their home, belly full, and behind the steering wheel again, Angela can, much to her surprise, finally close her eyes and fall asleep in Genji’s arms.

*

Winter and its sleets of ice turn into endless days of staying warm in the demon’s arms. A blanket or a thick sweater separates their persons. He still murmurs about freezing her lips when he kisses her. Yet, all he’s witnessed is the red on her cheeks that follows afterward.

Through the long nights, Angela catches the change in how Genji holds himself. He’s careful, as it’s still cold outside, but a new air resides around his red horns. Unlike the terror a demon emits, it’s new, and quiet. She doesn’t mention what she sees, and what sends her heart-melting inside her rib cage.

He’s happier.

It’s microscopically subtle. She once came home and heard the faint sound of his voice, singing a song that’s lost to this era. Speaking was often reserved for more special moments but he’s offering her stories he was told as a boy from his father. Zenyatta gladly reports the same observation.

He smiles more, especially at her. Oh, he even smiled at the monk after telling him goodbye. Her soul burns with hope that doesn’t fly on fragile wings, but soars through the air on unwavering feathers.

Only a few days into spring, that change shoots upwards at a rapid, sky climbing pace.

The alarm cuts through the peacefulness of a dream she can’t remember now. Rubbing the heel of one palm into her eye, Angela fishes through her waking haze to grab her phone and turn it off.

Propped up on one elbow, still surrounded by warm blankets, Angela breathes in deeply. A dark hand brushes back her hair. Gently, soft lips kiss the shell of her ear. A sleepy smile grows on her mouth. Turning to the source of what awakes her blood, Angela looks into red eyes.

“Good morning—oh!”

Genji leans back on the mattress, blinking once at her expression. Angela doesn’t move. Her eyes drop lower on his face. A second trips in my mind, doubting that she’s right about what she knows. But no, it’s true.

The red horns on the corners of his jaw are gone.

“Angela?” Genji asks.

Stunned into silence, Angela lifts her hands. It can’t be. She slowly lays her hand on his neck. He holds still underneath her touch, brow furrowing.

She lifts her index fingers, and taps lightly on where his horns were only the night before. The corner of his jaws hold his stark white skin, nothing more.

“They’re gone…” Angela finally breathes out.

His brow lifts. His lips part, his teeth refusing before closing. He stalls a second more than she did. From sheer doubt, or swift understanding, Angela doesn’t know. Tentatively, he raises his hands. Sliding away so he may feel for himself, Angela’s stunned gaze watches in marvel as Genji’s fingertips rub the corners of his jaw. His eyes widen.

The red horns on his temples remain. Red markings still take over his face and his eyes are a shade of blood, but the pair of horns are gone.

“Did you feel anything last night?” she whispers. The strangeness of it all circles through Angela, but not with fear of the unknown. This is something else, but something good. It has to be.

“No…” Genij still touches the corners of his jaw, lost in thought. “I… I thought about my brother. I didn’t get angry.”

Angela lifts her head. Her lips part in silent astonishment.

He is getting better, emotionally, and spiritual.

He can find peace. He won’t be damned forever.

Angela embrace him fervently, pressing her cheek against his own. His arms wrap around her. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, overwhelmed with emotions. What this could mean, and what it could bring, rises like a golden summer sun inside their chests.

He whispers her name, hesitating with hope, but Angela kisses his cheek. Quietly, she tells him it’s a good sign.

*

The slow thaw of spring brings about growth and enlightenment. Angela had throwaway thoughts of what Genji looked like before his death, but had no reason to dwell on them. Until now. As she traces the edges of his face, noticing yet another missing red mark, she dreams a little.

She gets a few glimpses of who he considered himself before. A skirt chaser. A pleasure seeker. A person who was around for a good time. These little pieces create a painting of someone who used to revel in his handsomeness and knew others enjoyed it as well.

The possibility of discovering his human image picks up her pulse and presses a musing smile to her teeth.

It’s always in the night. Genji doesn’t notice the change himself, like sand falling through an hourglass. It’s just suddenly gone. His waves of rage become less so. His grief lingers but it doesn’t weigh like the world. The horns on his temple disappear, too. Zenyatta smiles knowingly. His student is advancing at a steady pace.

Next, the red markings are washed clean from his face. It jars Angela a little to find the scarlet color missing from his features. Like a person with freckles losing them overnight. Genji still dips slowly in his hope, not entirely throwing himself into it but letting the splashes hit his skin.

Angela holds his hands in the morning. A comforting routine begins as she tells him if a dark aspect is missing. When she can give the good news of a red mark on his brow being gone, her finger traces the stark white color left behind. He closes his eyes. His imagination carries out his hope.

“I’m worried,” he admits one morning. His entire face is ghostly white, almost dramatically so. Every red marking flees, save for the scarlet in his irises.

“About what?” she asks.

“That you won’t find me as handsome,” he grins.

Angela chuckles. She cups his cheeks and holds him under her study for a long, pondering moment. He falls into her palms.

“I’ll always love you,” she breathes.

Through every change, painful and pleasant.

The demon smiles, his cheekbones shifting underneath her touch.

“My entire being is yours,” he gives simply as if it’s the color of the sky or the time of day.

Their kiss is precious and bittersweet. Angela tastes the cool, dark lips that have become the mantra of ‘my love’ inside her head. The relief of comforting arms and loving nights. A soft breath against her cheek. A caress along her collarbone.

He’s seeking a peaceful rest, a different kind of ending.

He isn’t hers forever, not in her life.

When Genji pulls away, Angela presses back, stealing another moment in the uncertainty of when this all will come to a close. His kiss is selfless. It stays with her and clings to her tongue even when she can’t seem to let go.

She doesn’t want to.

One day, she’ll make the choice to give him peace over her whole happiness.

*

“Angela,” Genji whispers.

“Hm?

She started to nod off. The last streaks of gold fight the black sky. A long workday guaranteed she wouldn’t see the end of the movie, but she wasn’t about to past up cuddling Genji on the couch.

She’s pressed against his chest, halfway sprawled out. Dark fingers stroke her hair. Another soft breath dust her cheekbones.

“Angela, my love, are you awake?” he murmurs as soft as a lullaby.

“Hm-hm.”

Fluttering open her eyelids, she slowly looks up. Red irises cut through the murky world of sleep and blue dimness. A lighter shade makes them content. Yet, there are crinkles around his eyes, heavy with concern.

His skin has become less chalky and more of a natural beige color. The darkness of his person still clings to him as the smell of smoke clings to fabric. His coolness has become less noticeable, or she’s grown used to his temperature since summer sprang upon them.

One year. Almost one whole year of being in love with him. One year of learning from Zenyatta, and refusing to let the past haunt him.

She can dream in her groggy consciousness that his heartbeat is as strong as her own and that the rings on their fingers match, and this house is what they chose together.

But he’s still suspended in restlessness. He is spiritual, completely, and her body doesn’t release the mortal weight of bones.

“What is it?” she whispers, stifling a yawn.

His fingers stroke her hair, coming down to rest on her back. He lets the silence stretch. A glint of something she’s never seen before refracts the red in his eyes.

“I’ve forgiven Hanzo.”

Splashed in the revelation, Angela straightens. Genji loosens his arms so she can sit up properly. Taking his arms, she holds his gaze. Her brow knits a doily of tender awe and love.

“Genji,” she breathes. In the shifting light of the T.V. screen, she studies his expression. It’s not entirely what she thought it would be. “Are you at peace?”

“Not yet,” he slowly says. 

His hand rises to cradle her cheek. Leaning into his touch, she dares not close her eyes. The red of his eyes drink her in, as if for the last time.

“Zenyatta believes I’m ready to rest,” he speaks carefully, “but there’s one more thing keeping me here. I… I didn’t want to ever think about it again, but I can’t move on until it’s been cleaned.”

Already? No… he’s ready.

“What?” Angela presses. Her heart races for a selfish reason she won’t address now. At his hesitation, she lays her hand on his chest. “Tell me, Genji.”

He sighs softly.

“My brother’s sword. It’s buried in the foundation of this house. It’s a heavy burden to ask you to carry, but I physically can’t, and I don’t trust anyone else.”

His brother’s sword. Is it the same one that cut short his life? It lies underneath this house? All this time?

“Genji,” Angela stops his wondering his gaze. Holding him, she smiles. “It’s not a burden. Not when it’s you.”

He almost crumples. He nearly breaks into her hands and begs to know how he deserves to have this kind of love, but he nods firmly. Rubbing a thumb along her cheek, he slowly disappears. Her cheek isn’t cooled by his touch, but by the air now.

Genji’s disembodiment voice whispers, “Follow me.”

Of course, she will do this. He asks for so little of her. This last cleansing of his own soul is beyond his means, but she can act in his proxy. Her mind almost slips down into a chasm of wondering what would happen without her presence, but it’s useless. He needs her now.

Angela gets to her feet. Her scrubs from the workday have been exchanged for a clean t-shirt and jeans. Her socks slip across the floor after the invisible hand that eases the basement door open. Her heartbeat picks up. A face of bone waits within the shadows but again, Genji moves without a physical body and turns on the lone lightbulb.

The cool cellar beckons with a chilling finger. She descends down the steps, fighting the rolling smoke of blackness. Quietly, she wonders how Genji existed during these years with the lone artifact anchoring him. Why he can’t he touch it? Perhaps it stems from a refusal on his part. Most likely, the reason is a sorrowful mixture of both.

The basement is mostly made of cement, but underneath the stairway, a lone wooden board seals up secrets from years ago. The square outline disrupts the claustrophobic concrete.

“There,” Genji’s invisible mouth whispers. A thickness lines his vocal cords.

Crouching, Angela faces the out of place board with a firm expression. Her clenched jaw hides the fear on her tongue from every ounce of darkness in the corners of her vision.

“It will be cramped,” Genji’s breath touches the shell of her ear. “You’ll have to crawl to get to it, but I know where it is.”

“Okay,” she says softly.

This is a gift, and a mercy, she can give him.

Again, without physical hands, the board is torn away. It’s tossed aside. Angela faces a cold draft wafting out, like a great beast exhaling. Her courage gathers itself as she sets her hands on the lip of the concrete cut out. In the darkness, her knees and elbows land.

Pebble rocks lay a bed across the whole underbelly of the house. A few old plastic coverings tried to make it presentable, but have long since fallen to time. Wooden support beams make a maze along with random stacks of insulation. Lowering her head back, Angela tries to connect the dim outlines with rooms in her home.

“I’m with you,” Genji’s voice appears like a flashlight in the dark. In the cramped, dark space, he’s beside her. “Go forward.”

She crawls deeper in. Through musty, mold smells and cobwebs leaving the eerie sensation of spiders creeping over her skin, Angela goes. She breathes deeply and evenly. Through her efforts, she ignores the darkness of the space not meant to be seen, much less moved through. Her heart gallops through her chest. Pounding blood pushes her forward, leaning on Genji’s whisper to turn right. Around a supporting pillar, Angela scatters rock.

“You’re close.” His tone is supportive, but something heavy lies underneath, unreadable. “Just a little farther.”

She takes this as a blazing torch and pushes on. A cobweb stands in her way. Before she can even lift her hand, a gust of midnight wind brushes it away for her. Quickly, she slips forward.

At the very cornerstone of the house, if she were to guess it would be directly underneath her bedroom, lies an object in the darkness. Two walls of foundation create a corner. Several beams stand as bars. The object is long and thin, with a thicker bottom. Her eyes peer closely. It’s a hilt meant for a strong, balanced hand.

“That’s it.” He can’t hide the surge of emotions that spill from those two words. Sorrow. Anger. Grief. Pain. Fear.

Sorrow, most of all.

In the near pitch black of the foundation, Angela makes out the sword. A cold breath leaves her lungs. The pricks of tears start at the corner of her eyes. Oh. Oh no.

Genji is dead. He died, long before her.

This is the murder weapon.

She forces her pulse to be quiet. Her careful hands reach out to take the most damaging evil she can fear. The unsheathed sword emits the scent of iron and red rest. In her palms, it weighs like sin. She draws it back to herself.

His presence surges around her. A vision of brothers who should have loved each other more. A swift fight. The last breath. The devastation that rang for decades.

Did Hanzo regret what he did to his brother? Does he know the pain he causes? The suffering?

Angela prays he did.

The sharp, silver blade is coated in a dark, crusty substance. Her stomach twists. Even that is here while Genji is.

She holds it at the tips of her fingers, controlling her horror and anguish of what it entitles. Its owner is the one who cursed Genji. It’s what gave her the chance to fall in love with him.

“Careful,” Genji whispers.

She nods. Slowly, she turns herself around, sword in hand like a scepter leading the charge, and crawls back to the opening.

The heaviness in her grasp is more than the skilled weight of the weapon. It’s from another decade. The design in the hilt is of ancient tradition, strung with a blue color. Angela carefully lays it on the ground just underneath the hole in the wall. Dark hands catch her own and ease her out of the darkness. Genji steps deliberately, keeping a wide berth to the sword of his damnation.

He stares at his brother’s weapon. Angela takes it in her hands, keeping her touch away from the now disturbingly dry and brown mass covering the pristine blade.

Genji tears himself away from the curse and holds her gaze. In his red irises, he relives the night of his death.

“Angela,” he so quietly speaks, “Please… will you clean it?”

She returns his stare. The promise she gave him reaches the climax. In her hands, his endless suffering can stop. He doesn’t have to find a way to go on after she’s spent her time on earth.

Calmly, Angela holds the sword upright. The stains have been there for too long. It’s time to rest.

“Yes.”

He closes his eyes briefly. The painful fluttering of his eyelids stays a moment more before he nods. They ascend upstairs. He disappears again, unable to be at her side while she carries the sword.

The kitchen sink stands in view of the new night. The window blinds above the sink are lifted, dripping in starlight. Her steady hands lay the blade across the white vitreous china. His presence swells behind her, but not in a body. She can picture him perched on the edge of the kitchen island, watching over her shoulder as she slips on her cleaning gloves. Next, soap and a sponge from the cabinet underneath.

A part of Angela wishes the dry blood was on Genji’s chest, and she was the one to wash it away tenderly, freeing him of the damning chains that have kept him here for a hundred years.

The dark brown substance is so old, she could blow on it and it would carry away in the air. Instead, carefully, Angela turns the water to a hot running temperature.

For a moment, she wants to believe it’s that simple. Wash away the bad blood. Wash away the horns on his face. Wash away the rage and isolation. Down the drain, the brown matter spirals in chunks. Her gloves separate her from the sin.

Behind her in spirit, Genji stares at the remnants of his past self. The evidence of his life and body. The living betrayal of his own brother. Rage doesn’t taint the air with red like it once did. As if a breeze over a field of flowers, peace whispers into Angela’s entire person. It fills the space of the kitchen.

Genji’s peace.

Her strokes down the blade reveal it’s sharp, glinting edge. The hilt is dusty but a few scrubs give away the blue design. It’s heavy and light. It’s shiny and dark. In her heart, she clings to his peace. Like a blanket, she wraps it around herself to shield from the furthest consequences.

After he accepts his peace, he’ll go to rest.

And leave her behind.

No. She promised him this. She won’t burden him with her own sorrow, not when he’s inches away from finally laying down to sleep with dreams and soft clouds.

She squeezes her eyes shut, just for a moment. Liquid seeps into her eyelashes but she blinks them away.

He’s found his peace. That’s all she wanted for him.

A washcloth is what she uses to dry the artifact. It sparkles like forgiveness. It slices off a piece of starlight and fills her eyes with hope.

Angela turns and holds out the sword. When her eyes register the person before her, her lips part. Her heart slows.

A man stands in natural glory. Beige skin takes away the darkness. His hair is still black as midnight, causing her fingers to twitch with the urge to card through the locks. His physique is still strong, built with skill and agility but no longer swathed in darkness. All of the red, the rage, has fled him.

His eyes. Oh, his eyes make Angela want to hold the beautiful color and let it drip from her fingertips. Sepia. She thought his red irises would always be the same. Now, staring at his true shade, she finds her heart leaping out to hold him.

Genji lifts his hands slowly. He’s dressed in dark grays and a rich green outfit, perhaps used for training. In silent marvel, he turns his hands, the cool dark hands she’s come to know. They’re not dark anymore.

His fingertips rise to his face. Touching the corner of his jaw, his cheekbone, even the corner of his eyes, he knows. A time before blood and fratricide fills his gaze. He almost forgot. In her glossy reflection, he’s human.

Gently, she lays the sword on the counter. It gleams with mercy. She crosses the little space, desperately and fearfully needing to touch the man before her. Her hand rises to his cheek. He stills, watching her with a color that will mark her soul for eternity.

Her hand lays on his cheek. He leans into the touch as if they’re laying in bed once more. Warm skin stuns her fingertips. In a half sob, half laugh, Angela lowers her jaw.

“You’re so handsome.”

His building smile takes hold. It washes her away in its warmth, bathing her in the sunshine of his pretty white teeth. He covers her hand with his own. A soft note of laughter leaves his pink lips.

“I was worried I wouldn’t be as attractive to you if I wasn’t a demon,” Genji says against her palm. “You seem to have a type.”

Angela snorts, shaking her head. The joke echoes. It reverberates more heat, inside and out. Genji chuckles with her. The sound of his voice is free of the drag of a dark river. It’s a gentle stream, light and free, trickling in its cords like a lullaby.

Her soft heart moves closer. His arms wrap around her waist. If he could, they would stay forever in the eternal, comforting midnight they’ve created. Angela lifts her other hand to hold his face in between her palms. She can’t let go. So desperately, she wants to tug him back upstairs so they can lie together on the bed.

His eyes are bright and hopeful. Rage doesn’t hook its claws into him anymore.

She rubs her thumbs along his cheekbones. Silently, she drinks in what could have been had Angela found him a hundred years ago.

But it’s time for him to rest.

“Genji…” she doesn’t mean for her voice to break, but it does. “I’m so proud of you, and I am so, so happy you found your peace. You’ve protected me, loved me, and brought me joy that I can’t contain.”

He looks at her. A thousand things dance through his eyes, all of those reflections of what they created together. Love. Sorrow. Laughter. Tears. He looks at her like the break of dawn after a long, dark night. He stays in her radius, seeking the warmth of her person.

His hand takes her chin. Holding it despite how it trembles, he meets her gaze with holy love. Her soul burns brighter in its sight.

“You saved me,” he breathes. “You are my first peace. You are my first hope. Angela, you made me remember that the heart of a man once beat inside of me.”

She has to contain her emotions. She has to remember the taste of his lips when he leans forward. He brushes against her mouth like a goodnight kiss. He stays against her for the years they won’t have anymore. Warm lips settle her soul. His kiss brings her peace, as well.

“I love you,” he whispers against her cheek.

Angela doesn’t dare open her eyes. Her hands cling to the soul underneath her hands.

“I love you, too.”

Just like when she first felt his physical presence. Her closed eyes give her the freedom to feel his features under her fingertips. She doesn’t trace horns or red markings, but Genji’s cheekbones.

“Live your life. Don’t let me haunt you,” he begs softly. “Let my love remind you that your heartbeat is precious.”

She manages to nod. Leaning forward, she softly presses her forehead against his own. His breath touches her skin. A few strands of his hair meet her temple. Her heart overflows in his absolute presence. Her throat is too thick for words. She wants her last words to him to be what she just spoke. . 

He wraps her up in his arms. His embrace promises his eternal devotion. Whatever comes next won’t dampen his love in the slightest. Without a word, he declares that everything will be alright, even through the years to come.

He breathes out quietly. Angela commits the sound to memory.

“I’ve forgiven my brother,” he whispers as if laying down in bed beside her and pulling the covers around her shivering body. “I’m tired, Angela.”

Angela holds him. In her hands, against her forehead, pressed to her chest. The pieces of her body scream to never let go. She will. She already has. She wants his peace. His cold, dark hand will remain against her skin for as long as she lives.

“Rest, Genji,” she says softly.

But she holds him. She holds him until his last kiss pecks her lips. He tugs gently on the end of her hair, smiles against her cheek, and goes to paradise. She clings to his handsome face until there’s nothing underneath her palms. She listens to his breathing until it stops. Her lips press back until his mouth is no longer there.

She opens her eyes.

In the kitchen, all alone, Angela’s empty arms wrap slowly around her own torso.

Peace. It trickles through her veins. It tells her heart to be still and quiet. It lets her mind know without a doubt that he’s finally found his resting place. Wherever souls go to sleep, he’s there.

His last gift.

Zenyatta will have to know what his favorite student finally found. Jack will be relieved, but he’ll hide the fact to comfort her in his absence.

She’ll adjust to living alone in their house.

The starlight is the only one to witness her slow descent. Onto her knees, she falls. She stays on the cool tile, hugging herself. As if Genji is inside of her and ready to head to the diner where Lena will serve them pancakes. He’s not, not in the same sense.

He’s in her every heartbeat.

That is why she will remember it’s so precious.

There is no mourning to erupt from her eyes. The tangible peace in the air soothes her. It helps her to her feet. Gently, she eases herself into her own bed, alone. Underneath the warm comforters, with a temperature that doesn’t match Genji’s hands, Angela lies.

A part of her understands that this is how it will be from now on. Alone. Imaging his warm, fair hands. Unafraid, but quietly yearning.

He found his peace. Angela finds it when she closes her eyes and dreams that she’s walking with him. He’s human, and the grass underneath their bare feet tickles her skin. He smiles at her. His lips don’t move, but the impression of his last request presses into her soul.

_Let my love remind you that your heartbeat is precious_

It already has.

She dreams. She takes his hand, and he lets her hold it until the morning light blesses her eyelids.

*

Beside her bed, in the early dawn, a few machines beep quietly. They monitor Angela’s vitals and administer the nutrients her old, frail body can’t take naturally anymore. Her lungs rise and fall with labor. Her wrinkled hands are constantly cold.

She couldn’t bear to leave the house. After all of these years, she’s called it her own, and it felt wrong to place herself in an assisted living home. Her nurse, Lucio, is good to her. He’s smart and capable. He’ll do amazing things one day. He’ll be here to relieve the nighttime nurse, who’s fallen asleep is the guest bedroom.

Her hands are still steady. After fifty years of performing trauma surgery, she’s left her mark on the world. She can only hope that it’s a good one. Her time came for retirement after the strength left her legs.

She never did find another to love. It wasn’t from a lack of effort. No one else filled her heart like Genji. In the end, she gave herself to her work, as she always had.

She lies down now. Her eyes gaze out the window and watch a periwinkle dusk the sky. Kisses from long ago ghost down the nape of her neck. She’s had her peace for fifty years, but she’s ready to rest now.

Angela closes her eyes. A deep breath fills her lungs. The machines start to beep frantically. Her heartbeat is precious. It’s always been filled with his love.

She exhales.

Her chest never rises again.

“Angela.”

Her eyelids rise slowly up. Irises, pure and blue as the sky, look for the voice. The yearning within her heart, starved for years, leaps up and finds exactly what it seeks.

The color sepia meets her gaze as if it never left.

Genji stands at the side of her bed. His fair skin is healthy, and his eyes are the most handsome shade she remembers them to be. He smiles gently. There aren’t horns decorating the expression anymore.

“My love,” he whispers and holds out his hand. The once dark hand waits.

Angela’s lips tug upwards. Her soul doesn’t know the weight of her sick, old body anymore and lifts her hand. When it lays in Genji’s palm, her fingers are soft. There are no wrinkles or liver spots in her skin. She looks as healthy as if she were twenty years old.

As soft as a summer breeze, Genji eases her upright. Angela moves without the ache of joints. She rises similarly to the flowers in spring. Young and new and born again. As she stands beside Genji, she marvels at the person he was only briefly before.

She starts to turn her cheek back to the body on the bed.

His hand gently cups her face, stopping her. His fingers shield her eyes.

“It’s better to not look,” he kingly says.

She wasn’t sure, until now, but she understands.

She’s found her peace, too. It’s time to lie down with him and rest.

Slowly, Angela leans her cheek into his palm. He holds her, dazzling with years of what she can only imagine as happiness. Staring at what she dreamed of for almost fifty years, Angela no longer remembers the pain of her decaying body and solitary life.

“Genji,” she smiles as the impression of happy tears line her eyelids. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Genji whispers.

He brings her heart to his chest. Her spirit is in its prime, beautiful and strong. Genji’s arms hold her as he first did on the night she returned from the hospital after the serial killer’s attack. His spiritual love spills all around her, greeting what she carried in her heart after he found peace.

His soul presses against her. The warmth of sun-dried flowers lays in her center. He takes her arm. Slipping into his side, Angela grips the crook of his elbow. She has no intention of letting go any time soon. She follows his guiding steps forward, onto a path that doesn’t tread on the earth.

Without an ounce of pain, Genji escorts Angela to a land of pure light. She’s already resting against him. Genji brings her to the lapping waves of a golden shore, where the ocean is colored with milk and honey.

In the distance, two figures wait. Her mother and father have been patient thus far.

Her fingers lay gently on Genji’s arm. He turns his head, watching her face. Angela breathes out slowly. The warmth surrounding her, from Genji’s touch to the constant, holy sun in the sky, gives sweet relief. At her slightest nod, they walk for a time together. Happily, Genji holds her hand. She leans her head onto his shoulder. His lips kiss the top of her hair.

He brought her faith, and hope, and a love that gave her strength for fifty years. Believing the impossible brought her the impossible. A demon’s care for a mortal such as she. A soul who gave her every part of himself, the good, and the sorrow, and the ability to heal.

She believes in goodness and the existence of sadness in the world. She believes in demons and the darkness they carry within, but never before Genji. She believes in a place for souls to rest. She believes in peace that extends past this mortal existence. She believes the most terrible of monsters can be human again. 

Angela knows she and Genji will have plenty of time to rest together. In peace, and in love, they’ll make their own heaven.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> You can check out my tumblr, ribbons-halos.tumblr.com. Come say hello!


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